


the collected

by philosophersandfools



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: AU, Abuse, Action, Adventure, Angst, Blood and Violence, Dreaming, Drug Abuse, Fighting for their lives, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Secrets, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Violence, eventually, hi its me so obviously theyre gonna suffer, like the slowest of slow burns, oh my god they were (forced to be) roommates, sad but hopeful, some torture thrown in there, the longer this quarantine lasts the darker this fic gets, there is light at the end of the tunnel I promise, which is my specialty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 95,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23148997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosophersandfools/pseuds/philosophersandfools
Summary: 'The worst part about all of this, Ronan thought bitterly, was that being kidnapped proved Declan had been right about something.'A purveyor of magical objects adds a dreamer and a psychic to his collection of curiosities.ORThe AU in which Adam and Ronan only meet for the first time after they’ve both been kidnapped by Greenmantle.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 436
Kudos: 734





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> “[Greenmantle] is not interested in people. He is interested in things. He will find the thing that makes you work, and he will remove it. He will put it in a glass box with a label and when his guests have had enough wine, he will take them down to where you are and show them that thing that was inside you… it’s possible he would make an exception for you. But it would only be that he’d put all of you in the glass box. He is a curator. He will do what he needs to do for his collection.” -The Dream Thieves

The van slammed on its brakes with a screech. Without his hands free to stop him, Ronan skidded violently across the floor and collided with a pair of camo-clad legs.

His captor (an unintelligent brute of a man who was seated on an overturned bucket) stood and kicked Ronan in the side, hard enough to shove the teen back a few feet. Payback, Ronan figured, for the punches Ronan had landed a few hours prior. His knuckles ached, hungry for another bout against the bigger man. Ronan shifted to his stomach, trying to revive the circulation in his right arm.

“Hal, quit damaging the merchandise,” their driver- a man as scrawny as his partner was beefy- called out. “Greenmantle’s not gonna pay out if the kid’s brain dead when we get there.”

“He’s fine,” the man called Hal growled, settling back on his bucket and staring daggers at Ronan, a look that Ronan returned with fervor.

Ronan would have enjoyed telling Hal exactly what he thought of him, but the man had wrapped duct tape liberally four or five times around Ronan’s head and mouth, effectively silencing him. So Ronan settled for glaring, hoping to look as threatening as a teenager who was zip tied hand-and-foot could look against an opponent twice his size.

They’d been in the van for hours. It had to be early morning, now, and Ronan wondered if Gansey had raised the alarm yet. Although, he realized with a sinking sensation, Gansey probably assumed that Ronan had skipped out on their Nino’s plans to party with Kavinsky, which was exactly what Ronan had been planning on doing before he’d been accosted by these two nimrods in the Barns driveway.

They drove for several more hours. Every time Ronan lay still for too long, he’d receive a kick from his captor; nothing hard enough to really hurt him, but hard enough to keep him awake. Which, Ronan eventually realized, was probably the point. So did they know about his dreaming? How? His mind tumbled over the possibilities. Gansey didn’t even know about his friend’s supernatural ability to pull objects from his dreams. No way Declan had told anyone, as much as Ronan would relish the opportunity to blame his older brother for something.

The other possibility, of course, was that these men had no idea about or interest in Ronan’s dreams, and that they had come after Ronan the same way they’d come after his father, months prior. But if that was the case, surely they’d have killed him by now?

No, they knew about the dreaming. And there was only one person who knew about Ronan’s dreaming who shouldn’t have. Kavinsky. God, if Kavinsky had ratted Ronan out, Ronan would strangle the life out of that Bulgarian piece of shit the moment he had the chance.

 _"You’ve got to keep your head down"_ , Declan had told Ronan, shortly before the funeral, one of the last times Ronan and Declan had spoken with words instead of fists. _"Don’t dream up anything big. Don’t go to the Barns. We don’t think anyone knows about you, but we can’t know for sure. We don’t know if Dad told anyone."_

The worst part about all of this, Ronan thought bitterly, was that being kidnapped proved Declan had actually been right about something.

*

 _Declan had warned Ronan about Kavinsky, had reminded Ronan again and again that the ravenous, drug-addled teenager could not be trusted. Ronan had already known this. His relationship with Kavinsky had always been less about friendship and more about illicit substances, fast cars, and the heady, intoxicating allure of being_ known.

_It wasn’t just about the dreaming (though that was a large part of it)._

_The first time Ronan had dreamt something big, he’d had help. He’d been laying on the grass, sprawled out in front of K’s white Mitsubishi after killing a six pack in under an hour. With a showy flourish, Kavinsky had unearthed two identical red pills from somewhere and held them out to Ronan, one in each hand._

_It wasn’t a pill Ronan had ever seen before. He’d grabbed one._

_“Don’t you wanna know what it does?” Kavinsky had asked, leering above Ronan from the hood of his car. Ronan hadn’t bothered responding, had just thrown the pill into his mouth and washed it back with a swig of beer. He’d figured Kavinsky wouldn’t have given him something that would kill him. Probably._

_Kavinsky had laughed, deep and languid, and brought the second red pill to his lips._

_“And down the rabbit hole we go, Lynch.”_

_The pill hadn’t made Ronan drowsy, or slow, or loopy. Instead, it had thrown him, unceremoniously, head-first, into deep sleep._

_Into a dream._

_Cabeswater, the dream forest he often explored while asleep, had been distraught and unhappy, though he didn’t know why, at first._

_‘Intruder,’ the trees hissed. ‘Thief.’_

_“Thief?” Ronan had asked, and behind him, Kavinsky had answered: “They’re talking about me, mother fucker.”_

_The swear word felt wrong in such a serene, sacred place, but it was nothing compared to the wrongness of seeing Kavinsky—crooked and relaxed and grinning like a jackal—leaning against a tree, lighting a cigarette._

_“Are you really here?” Ronan had asked, approaching the other boy uncertainly._

_Kavinsky had sucked on the end of his cigarette and held Ronan’s gaze, his eyes alight._

_“Maybe,” Kavinsky had said, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Maybe not.”_

_A rabbit wearing a bowtie had emerged from the roots at Kavinsky’s feet. When it looked at Ronan, he saw that its eyes were glassy and bloodshot and hungry. So hungry. Ronan felt its hunger mirrored in his own chest cavity, deep and cavernous and gaping. The rabbit had bared its sharp, lethal teeth and Kavinsky had cackled. The trees had hissed._

_Ronan hadn’t been able to decide which option was worse: that Kavinsky might really be there, in Cabeswater, occupying the same dream space as Ronan; or that Kavinsky wasn’t there at all, which meant Ronan was dreaming of Kavinsky, which forced Ronan to consider a certain truth he wasn’t quite ready to face._

_The hunger inside him grew._

_Kavinsky pushed himself off the tree so that he was standing in front of Ronan. His gaze, like the rabbit’s, was unrelenting, magnetic, smoldering, and suddenly he was close, uncomfortably close, and Ronan couldn’t think, his brain becoming as hazy as the smoke from the cigarette._

_“Know what your problem is?” Kavinsky had asked, his breath reeking of smoke a centimeter from Ronan’s ear and his hands beginning to wander places Ronan would never dare let them explore if he were awake and sober. “You trust too damn easily. It’s gonna get you in trouble one day.”_

_Ronan had woken up, then, bringing back a forest fire._

_Not just the fire—no, he’d brought back an entire forest (a forest that looked like Cabeswater but was very decidedly unmagical) and a fire. The previously empty field they’d been drinking in had become alight with burning trees and plants and terrified animals, and Ronan had leapt to his feet in panic, and Kavinsky had laughed in triumph, amazed at what he and Ronan had been able to bring back to the waking world together. _

_The white rabbit had howled in rage and pain and scampered off into the underbrush, its fur alight with burning cinders, and Ronan never saw the rabbit again._

_The hunger, however, had remained, and Ronan thought it might have always been there, deep in the recesses of his heart and body the whole time. It was his mind that had taken so long to catch up. He supposed he had Kavinsky to thank for that._

_Days later, when two thugs appeared in the driveway of the home Ronan wasn’t supposed to be at, armed to the teeth and all-too-knowledgeable about his dreaming and his ability and how it all worked, Ronan would remember the fire, and the rabbit, and Kavinsky’s warning, and even as he fought, he would be unable to shake the feeling that he was fighting a battle Kavinsky had won a long time before._

*

The van rolled to a halt, and moments later the back doors swung open, momentarily blinding Ronan as sunlight streamed in. He couldn’t say how long they’d been driving- they’d stopped (presumably for gas) once, but judging by the afternoon sun he’d estimate he’d been cramped into the same position for at least ten hours, give or take. He had to piss like a racehorse.

He kicked out as rough hands grabbed at him, pulling him out of the back of the van where he collapsed on the asphalt. His knees took the brunt of the fall, but sharp, shooting pain laced its way up his thighs and down his arms as blood sluggishly returned to his numb limbs.

Ronan caught a glimpse of the stately, brick backside of a building (it might have been a townhouse, Ronan couldn’t be sure) and a line of gold-and-green maple trees towering over a brick wall before his vision was obscured by a pillow case and someone—Hal, presumably—was lifting Ronan by his shoulders. Another pair of hands hoisted Ronan by his bound ankles. Ronan twisted and flailed as savagely as he could, animalistic growls caught in the back of his throat as he tried to shout around the duct tape.

“Fuck,” the driver panted as the trio inched away from the van. “Slippery bastard, ain’t he?”

Ronan bucked his legs, almost throwing the skinny guy off balance, and Hal swore loudly. An unfamiliar third voice made itself heard above the fray, though Ronan was thrashing so hard against his captors and his restraints that it didn’t register on any conscious level.

He was unceremoniously hauled somewhere indoors before he was thrown to the ground, his face pressed firmly against a plush carpet through the pink pillowcase. A boot pressed down on the small of his back. Helpless, he lay against the floor, breathing heavily through his nose and trying not to panic at the limited airflow the duct tape afforded him.

Above him, a buoyant male voice was speaking excitedly.

“-sure it’s him? Absolutely certain?”

“It matches the photo you gave us. Slim has his wallet-”

“-here-”

“-was a real bitch getting him in that van, he fucked up my nose-”

“-and he didn’t dream anything yet, right?”

“You told us not to let him sleep. I’ve been kicking him awake all night.”

“Yes, yes. Very good. I rather hoped Piper would be back by now, but, well, let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?”

The pressure from Ronan’s back disappeared and the pillowcase was ripped from Ronan’s head. He immediately flipped to his side and struggled to sit upwards. His legs vibrated painfully with pins and needles, and he wasn’t sure if they’d support his weight, so he remained sitting, staring hatefully up at his captors.

Above him, Hal and the driver flanked a boyishly handsome man who looked to be in his 30s. He had dark hair and wore a crisp, salmon-colored collared shirt and slacks. His pale green eyes were bright and anticipatory, and as they met Ronan’s lethal gaze he actually clapped in excitement, hopping up on the balls of his feet. Behind the three men was a large, oak stained desk. Stately paintings in ornate frames adorned the walls.

“Brilliant, just, really, we’ve outdone ourselves,” the man was saying. To Ronan, he said, “My name is Colin Greenmantle. You are Ronan Lynch. I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want you free you until we’ve gotten to know each other a bit better.”

He offered Ronan a wide, toothy smile.

“Now, I’m sure this has all been an extremely trying ordeal for you, but I want to assure you that I mean no harm. So long as you do what I say, in fact, I see no reason to even keep you locked up at all. But it really depends on how amenable you are.”

Ronan’s glare did not diminish as he wiggled his feet experimentally, straining at the zipties holding his ankles together. Greenmantle did not seem off-put in the slightest.

“I have it on very good authority that you possess the unique ability to pull objects from your dreams. Please do not bother denying that this is a skillset you possess. I'm very eager to add you to my collection of strange and fantastical artifacts, which, by the way, I believe you will find both extensive and impressive. First I want to determine whether this skillset of yours is innate, or whether it can be shared. If, for example, it can be removed from your person and exist entirely separate from you. In order to determine this, I first want to see you dream.” He turned to the larger of his two thugs.

“Take off the tape, just over his mouth, would you?”

Hal lumbered forward and knelt heavily by Ronan’s head. Ronan was savagely pleased to note that the man had developed one hell of a black eye. There was the ominous snick of a pocketknife and Ronan become certain, for a tense moment, that his neck was about to be slit open. Instead, Hal worked his finger under a wad of tape and sliced cleanly through it in a single, deft, upwards motion.

“So, how exactly does this work?” Greenmantle was asking. “I tell him what I want and he goes to sleep and just, like, manifests it?”

“That’s what the kid said.”

Hal savagely ripped the tape from Ronan’s mouth and head and stood back, watching Ronan with undisguised hatred. Ronan closed his eyes as he gulped in a lung full of air, his face stinging.

He imagined how Greenmantle’s conversation with Kavinsky had probably gone: _He’s not too good with his dreaming. But he’ll get there. Just gotta be real fucking specific. Take it slow and he'll put out._ Ronan felt sick.

He snapped his eyes open and glared at Greenmantle.

“Fuck you,” He spat, shaking with fury. “Rot in hell.”

“How uncouth,” Greenmantle said, the 100-watt smile dimming just a bit. He pulled a sheet of paper from his desk and held it in front of Ronan. It was a printed photo of an antique-looking necklace, gaudy and ornate.

“How about this? Think you could dream us something that looks like this? It’s fine if it’s not exact.”

Ronan’s mouth was dry but with pure spite he managed to work up enough spit to splatter the paper anyway. Greenmantle whipped the page away.

“Uh,” said the van driver. Ronan had almost forgotten about him. “This could take awhile. You said you’d give me four hundred cash upon delivery, and…” he gestured in Ronan’s direction to indicate he’d held up his end of the bargain.

“Can you wait, like, ten minutes?” Greenmantle snapped.

“But you said-“

“Fine. Fine.” Greenmantle patted down the front of his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll wire the money now.”

“You said cash.”

“What is this, 2007? I don’t carry cash.”

“Well, I don’t got no bank account or nothin’. That’s why I said yes to this job, ‘cause you said you’d pay cash!”

“Fine!” Greenmantle exploded. “Take the Dreamer to the guest room while I scrounge up _cash_.”

Hal and the driver (Ronan still didn’t know his name) hauled Ronan to his feet. Ronan bared his teeth in a vicious parody of a grin as he was pulled from the office, his bound feet dragging uselessly behind him. Once in the hall, his captors maneuvered a struggling Ronan entirely off the ground. Hal threw the pillowcase back over Ronan’s head and tied it roughly in a knot at the base of Ronan’s skull. He was half carried, half dragged down what he assumed must have been a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and down another hall.

He kicked out savagely and connected with something enormous and solid. The sound of shattering glass and the driver’s swears rang loudly as his captor wrestled for control again. Ronan was gearing up for another full-body kick when he was abruptly dropped to the ground.

A door slammed behind him. Ronan panted on the carpet for a few moments, then rolled to his stomach and began to awkwardly rub his head against the ground in an attempt to dislodge the pillowcase.

Without warning, every hair on the back of his neck stood up and alarm bells sounded in his head. He froze, unsure why he suddenly sensed danger. There was a soft rustle of fabric several feet to his right, and Ronan suddenly knew with absolute certainty: he was not alone.

“Who’s there,” he demanded sharply.

Silence.

Ronan renewed his attempts to remove the pillowcase with vigor, scraping his head awkwardly against the plush carpet as his heart thundered in his chest. He was going to have awful rugburn.

A light turned on overhead and Ronan immediately maneuvered clumsily into a crouch, ready to… do whatever he could to defend himself, which wasn’t much. But being on his feet felt less vulnerable than flat on the floor. Light footsteps padded across the carpet and Ronan jerked at the sudden contact as a hand lightly touched the back of his neck. After a moment, Ronan realized that this other person, whoever they were, was working at the knot there.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Ronan growled, itchy with apprehension.

After several excruciatingly long moments and without fanfare, the pillowcase was plucked neatly from his head.

In front of him stood a slender, brown-haired teen who couldn’t have been much older than Ronan himself. He was wearing a ratty red t-shirt and worn jeans and had the rangy, slightly underfed look of the chronically ill. He was in serious need of a haircut.

It was his face (not his expression, which was carefully blank, but the structure of the thing itself) that held Ronan’s attention, however. His blue eyes were deep set, almost sunken, and his lips and chin protruded delicately in a way that should have made him look girlish but didn’t.

For some reason- the otherworldly features, the knowing, deep-set eyes, the strange symmetry of his face- Ronan wanted to both stare and look away at the same time. It felt as though, if the other boy caught Ronan’s gaze upon him, he would know something about Ronan- something that Ronan did not want him to know. Ronan averted his eyes.

“Who the hell are you,” Ronan demanded, taking in the room around them.

They were in a spacious, tastefully decorated bedroom, complete with a large queen-sized bed and two windows covered by burgundy drapes. The bed had been carefully made, though it was obvious it had been slept in recently. A round table and wooden chair stood in front of an electric stone fireplace. The table was covered in books, candles, and a large ceramic bowl filled with dark liquid.

The air had the slightly stale, sticky scent and quality that Ronan usually associated with locker rooms. This room needed to be aired out. On second look, however, thick boards of plywood had been nailed over the windows, making them impossible to open or see out of. Ronan eyed the entryway: the door was sturdy, and wooden, and a metal plate had been bolted over the place where the handle should have been. Whoever this stranger was, he was every bit as much a prisoner as Ronan.

Ronan turned his attention back to the teen before him. Now that the immediate possibility of a threat had been eliminated (this guy looked no more capable of hurting Ronan than of kissing him), Ronan thought his heart should stop trying to beat its way out of his chest, but if anything, it now only beat more insistently, and Ronan wasn’t sure what that meant. It was the sight of the bathroom behind them that reminded Ronan how badly he needed to take a leak.

Ronan snapped, “You got scissors or something? For the zip ties?” The other boy continued to stare, and Ronan wondered if he was mentally slow, or maybe a total lunatic. He was starting to creep Ronan out.

Finally, the other teen shook his head “no”. He continued looking at Ronan, though what was going through his mind, Ronan couldn’t guess. _He’s afraid_ , Ronan realized. Though was it fear of Ronan, or of Greenmantle and his goons? Ronan realized, very suddenly, that he did not want this strange teenager to be afraid of him.

He evened his tone to something that was decidedly more neutral. “What’s your name?”

The teen cleared his throat and swallowed noisily, as if he wasn’t used to answering questions, or maybe wasn’t used to speaking at all.

“Adam.”

Even with the one word, Ronan could hear an accent that he was not altogether unfamiliar with, having grown up in western Virginia.

“So are you part of Greenmantle’s “collection”, or whatever, too?”

“Yes.” It was unnerving how rarely the other boy seemed to need to blink. “I’m psychic.”

“Oh, fantastic. Can you tell me when I’m getting out of this shit-hole, then?”

“Not that kind of psychic.”

“How many fucking kinds are there?”

Adam’s gaze was unrelenting. “I can’t see the future. Only… what is.”

Ronan was momentarily thrown. “What is… what?”

“What is. What is… current. Things that presently exist, or are currently happening.”

“Sounds like just about the most useless skill ever.”

The other boy’s mouth tightened into a firm line. “That’s what I always thought, too. Greenmantle saw the potential.”

There was bitterness behind the words, Ronan was grimly pleased to hear. So at least Adam wasn’t a total robot.

“You got people out there looking for you?”

“No.” There was no emotion attached to the word.

“How long have you been here?”

At this, Adam hesitated, blinked, looked away. “What’s the date?”

“The second. Or, shit, I guess the third.”

“Of…?”

“September,” Ronan said. “You couldn’t have figured that out with your psychic abilities?”

“Numbers are hard,” Adam muttered. “But I knew it was autumn. The leaves are changing colors.” He turned and sat on the single chair in the room, next to the table.

“So they let you outside, at least?”

“No. I saw it up here.” Adam tapped the side of his head, once, then let his hand fall to join the other, clasped loosely on his lap. He stared at them, lost in thought.

“How long have you been here?” Ronan prodded the other boy from his reverie.

Adam sighed. “Three months.”

“You’re telling me you’ve been here three months and haven’t come up with an escape plan? Fuck, man, we’re in suburbia, not some high-security prison.”

Adam’s lips twisted wryly. “Not so simple.”

He pulled up his pant leg, revealing a thick, plastic band and a bulky black box that was wrapped tightly around his ankle and was secured with a padlock. The band and box looked familiar, for some reason. The skin on his ankle was rubbed raw and red.

“I tried to get away,” Adam said, his voice matter-of-fact. He was now flattening his accent, Ronan noticed. “A few weeks ago. I didn’t know they'd hired a new a security guard. They caught me, dragged me back. I got off easy,” he said, nodding to his ankle. “Piper wanted to cut off one of my toes. But Greenmantle convinced her I might bleed out. So they modified one of these.”

Now, Ronan understood why the bulky ankle jewelry looked familiar. His parents had raised cattle, back when Ronan was young. They’d bought a similar-looking shock collar for one of the cows that was constantly wandering onto the neighbor’s land, though Ronan’s mother had been too concerned with injuring the animal to actually use it.

“Who the hell is Piper?”

“Mrs. Greenmantle. Pray you never meet her,” Adam said darkly.

“Right.” Ronan said, deeply fucking disturbed and about 100% done with this conversation. “Well-“ he scooted forward, trying to find as comfortable a sleeping position he could with both wrists still restrained painfully behind him. “I’m gonna take a quick nap. Don’t wake me.”

“You shouldn’t fight him,” Adam said warningly. He was still staring at his folded hands in front of him.

“Greenmantle? Why the hell not? He’s a goddamn lunatic.”

Adam let out an unexpected, hollow bark of laughter. His next words made Ronan’s skin crawl. “Yeah, he is. And he’ll find a way to get what he wants from you. Sooner or later. He always does.”

Adam suddenly cocked his head, as though he were listening to something Ronan couldn’t hear.

“They’re coming up here,” he said.

Ronan was about to ask _who is_ when the door flung open. Greenmantle marched in, Hal closing the door behind him.

“Here’s the situation,” Greenmantle said, and it was such a Declan thing to say that Ronan would have hated the man even if he hadn’t just kidnapped him. “I’m going to tell you what I want, and then you’re going to dream it for me.”

“Here’s the other thing,” Ronan said. “Fuck you.”

“If you don’t,” Greenmantle continued, voice raising, “I’m going to torture you.” He raised his eyebrows to let that statement sink in. Ronan remained unimpressed. Greenmantle continued, “I haven’t given much thought to the exact form the torture will take, I’d like to confer with my wife on that one, but it would save us a ton of time and energy if you just do what I ask.”

Ronan narrowed his eyes.

“Fine,” he said, abruptly. “I’ll dream for you. But first, I gotta piss.”

“Any funny business, Hal here has a gun,” Greenmantle said, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Ronan managed to avoid rolling his eyes with extreme difficulty. Hal begrudgingly cut the zip ties from Ronan’s hands and ankles and Ronan limped his way to the bathroom. The bathroom door had been removed and Hal stood, arms crossed, in the doorway while Ronan did his business.

Inside the bathroom, sundry articles of clothing drip-dried in the shower and a ragged white towel hung on the wall hook. A disposable razor lay on the counter besides a roll of toothpaste.

“Don’t get ideas,” Hal growled when he caught Ronan eyeing the razor.

When Ronan emerged, he caught Adam’s eye and glanced towards the bed. Adam understood his unspoken question and nodded uncertainly. Ronan hoisted himself onto the burgundy comforter and laid back against the pillows. His skin crawled with the weight of three sets of eyes. He’d never dreamt in front of anyone besides Kavinsky before. He felt exposed, raw.

So maybe not so different than dreaming with Kavinsky, after all.

Greenmantle strode forward so he was looking down over Ronan. He held the photo of the necklace up and Ronan made a show of carefully studying the gold, ruby-encrusted monstrosity. Ronan closed his eyes. Several feet away, Hal breathed noisily through his mouth. Elsewhere in the house, a door closed. In Greenmantle’s hand, the paper crinkled softly.

After several long minutes, Ronan opened his eyes in Cabeswater.

 _Greywarren_. The trees whispered their welcome, as they always did when Ronan arrived in Cabeswater. Water tumbled gently over large pebbles and granite boulders, as it always did. Small animals scampered to the edge of the tree line to look at Ronan curiously, as they always did.

Then, thunder rolled. On the distant horizon, storm clouds gathered. Leaves rustled uneasily, the water swelled, the animals paused. Cabeswater could sense something was wrong.

Ronan thought of Greenmantle, and of Hal. _I need something to hurt them_ , he thought. _Not all of them, though_ , he added as a quick afterthought, thinking of Adam.

The leaves rustled in displeasure. A squirrel scampered forward and stared at Ronan accusingly. Cabeswater did not like the idea of hurting someone. It was against its nature.

 _Trust me,_ Ronan assured the forrest. _These men deserve it. You would be protecting me if you hurt them_.

There was a distant hum and a dark, formless cloud of hornets appeared and swelled, barreling towards Ronan.

 _Death?_ The trees asked. The buzzing quickly became deafening.

“No”, Ronan answered hastily, clamping his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to kill them. I just want to hurt them. So I can get away.” He was speaking English, rather than Latin, as Cabeswater usually preferred, but Cabeswater understood his meaning. Around him, the hornets were changing shape, elongating, their wings lengthening-- Ronan thought of Adam, picturing the other teen as clearly as he could. In front of him, an insubstantial, wispy mirage of Adam appeared.

 _Friend or foe?_ Cabeswater asked.

“Friend!” Ronan shouted. “He’s a friend. Hurt everyone else but not him!”

The insects had surrounded him, now, blotting out the sky above and pulsating with vicious, angry energy. In the distance, a night horror howled. Ronan began to run, blindly, willing himself awake as the insects continued to swarm around him. His foot caught on something- a rock, a root, who knew- and he sprawled on the ground. He could feel himself beginning to wake.

He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated as hard as he could on his final request of Cabeswater—there was one more thing he needed to bring back—before he slammed into wakefulness.

As was often the case when he’d brought something from his dream space into the waking world, Ronan was utterly paralyzed where he lay on his back, eyes closed. Insects buzzed deafeningly. Metal bit painfully into the closed palm of his hand. Greenmantle shrieked in fear.

“What the fuck-!” Hall was yelling, and something shattered noisily.

“Let me out of here, let me out-!”

Greenmantle and Hal seemed to be wrestling with each other at the door as the buzzing heightened to an almost deafening level. Miniscule insect legs pricked across Ronan’s cheek before a bug took flight with a noisy whine. Hal was positively howling in pain as Greenmantle shrieked from a distance- likely from the hall outside- “Don’t let them out, shut the door, shut the—“ and the room’s door slammed shut, lessening the severity of the buzzing.

“Ronan? Ronan?” Adam’s voice- coming from somewhere on Ronan’s left- was quiet but urgent.

Mobility returned to Ronan’s limbs. He opened his eyes and sat up. A dark, glittering insect landed heavily on his left knee, affording Ronan a close-up view of Cabeswater’s nightmarish creation. It was a two-inch long scorpion, curled tail raised and poised to strike. Its black, spindly legs were overly long and spider-like and its outer shell was a sharp mosaic of glittering scales that looked red or black, depending on how the light landed. It had long, translucent brown wings that twitched as the scorpion paused.

Ronan hardly breathed. With an angry zzzZZZZzzz, the scorpion-like creature flew off in the direction of the door.

Adam was crouched in the corner of the room, eyes the size of dinner plates. A small group of scorpion-wasp hybrids scuttled around his ankles, but he seemed unharmed. The ceramic bowl was smashed on the floor, surrounded by a large damp spot where the liquid had spilled. At least thirty of the improbable insects were crowded around the cracks in the doorway, fighting to escape.

“They won’t sting you,” Ronan said, watching as one of the insects successfully disappeared through the crack beneath the door. “I don’t think.”

Adam barely moved his lips. “How do you know?”

“I told them not to.”

Adam looked at Ronan in startled amazement. “You… purposely dreamed up these…” His voice trailed off.

“I don’t have that much control,” Ronan admitted. “Yet. I just knew I wanted something to hurt those assholes, and Cabeswater- the dream space, I mean- answered.”

Adam opened his mouth, and Ronan could practically see the myriad questions whirling through the other teen’s brain. But they had more pressing matters to deal with.

“Please tell me you also dreamed up bolt cutters,” Adam finally muttered, nodding to the padlock around his ankle.

Ronan’s smile was barbed. He opened his hand, which was now dripping with blood. In his palm lay a slender, silver knife that hummed with dream energy, eager to slice through anything and everything it touched.

*

“I want to make sure I understand you,” Piper said, her voice overly sweet and far too understanding to be genuine. “You kidnapped the Dreamer, tied him up, had Hal knock him around a bit, and then you genuinely thought that he would give you what you wanted, just because you asked nicely?”

That was about the gist of it. Greenmantle knew he was in big trouble.

He was sprawled on the bathroom floor, holding one ice pack to his cheek and another to his neck. He had at least seven stings- he’d counted each barbed stinger as he’d pulled them painstakingly from his skin with a pair of Piper’s tweezers- and he was feeling distinctly nauseous.

Squashed scorpion guts and scales glimmered on the bathroom walls and mirror; Greenmantle had found that his wife’s thick Vogue compilation magazine had made a wonderful weapon against the bugs, who were persistent but brittle and not very smart. Hal, having taken the brunt of the wasp-scorpion’s fury, had left for the hospital almost immediately, but Piper had just arrived home and explanations were in order.

Greenmantle didn’t think the scorpion’s stings were deadly- he was still awake, at least- but they hurt like a bitch and were definitely poisonous. He knew this because he'd gone on vacation to the Baja peninsula in Mexico with Piper, once. Piper had lain on the beach and gotten nicely tanned while Greenmantle had decided to do a bit of snorkeling and had ended up with an enormous jellyfish sting across the entirety of his torso, which Piper had refused to pee on despite his desperate pleas. These stings felt a lot like that one: debilitatingly painful, but not exactly deadly. And Greenmantle knew better than to ask Piper for help in the pain management department.

“You’re an insufferable idiot,” Piper informed her husband. “I take it our Psychic is dead? Because from what I can tell, he’s still trapped in there with a million flying scorpions.”

Greenmantle hadn’t thought about the Psychic.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “They weren’t attacking him. Just me. And Hal.”

As if to prove his point, one of the other-worldly insects entered the bathroom, buzzing angrily and bee-lining for Greenmantle. Piper picked up the Vogue magazine and smashed it into the mirror in one fluid motion. “That’s interesting,” she said. “So the Dreamer was protecting him?”

“How the hell should I know? What does it matter?” Greenmantle whined. His face hurt. His hands hurt. Everything hurt.

Piper tisked. “You know nothing about the art of persuasion.”

“Not true, I got you to marry me, didn’t I?”

She shot her husband a withering look and continued, “Didn’t I tell you to kidnap the younger brother? Didn’t I say we needed a pressure point, since you don’t want to physically damage the Dreamer?”

This had been a major point of contention between the two of them. Piper- eager to try out the CIA torture techniques she’d read so much about- had wanted to break the Dreamer before they even asked him to dream for them. Greenmantle, who had skimmed enough breaking news headlines to know the mortality rate of US prisoners of war wasn’t great, had insisted on a rule of No Bodily Harm against the Dreamer. He had to admit, he was starting to rethink that rule.

“Well, lucky for you,” Piper said, brusquely. “While you were here, running round with your head up your ass-“

“Hey,” Greenmantle protested weakly.

“-I was in Bumfuck, Virginia, anticipating our problem and actually finding a solution. Which I believe I have.”

She strode over to the doorway and called over her shoulder, “Call Mr. Gray. Tell him to get over here, stat.”

Greenmantle gave a noise of objection. “You want to kill the Dreamer? I just got him!”

“There is manhandling that needs to be done. I’m not going to do it, and _you’re_ certainly not going to do it. Ergo, Mr. Gray.”

Privately, Colin thought his wife was probably best suited out of all of them for any manhandling, but then again, she had recently gotten her nails done.

“What do we need him for?” Greenmantle protested, but he was starting to perk up, despite the pain he was in. Piper was very sexy when she got riled up like this.

“It’s all about finding the right pressure points,” Piper said. “After I’m done with the Dreamer, he will be begging to give us what we want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on tumblr I'm so bored! [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)


	2. two

The other teen’s eyes darted between the knife—which was humming at a pitch so high it was starting to make Ronan feel nauseous—and the palm of Ronan’s hand, where blood was starting to pool.

“The blade’ll slice through anything it touches,” Ronan muttered, examining the cut that crossed his palm. “Didn’t think that one through.”

Adam stood, careful not to disturb the otherworldly insects that buzzed around him like horse flies. He froze as one landed, briefly, on the front of his shirt.

“Are they real?” he asked as the insect took off. “I mean, do they follow the same rules as other insects?”

The answer was that Ronan had no fucking idea, and he wasn’t in the mood to start discussing the more esoteric aspects of his dreaming.

“C’mere,” Ronan demanded, scooting off the bed and gesturing.

Adam hesitated.

“Come _on_ ,” Ronan snapped, and the other teen finally approached, hoisting his pant leg as Ronan knelt, briefly, to slice easily through the padlock that secured the shock collar. He must’ve nicked Adam’s skin, because a pinprick of blood began to well almost immediately. Oh, well. It certainly wasn’t nearly as bad as the cut in Ronan’s right hand, which was now bleeding so badly the knife was hard to grasp.

Ronan grimaced, switching the knife awkwardly to his left hand as he stood. He’d meant to dream up an axe, actually, or a sword- something big enough to hack through the door- but as was often the case, the thing he’d asked Cabeswater for had come out wrong.

Adam was rummaging through the bedside table as Ronan pressed the knife to the space between the door and the wooden frame, guessing where the deadbolt would be. His hand slipped and he almost cut himself again. He swore loudly.

“Stop- here,” Adam said, tossing Ronan a roll of gauze. “I’ll figure out the door, wrap your hand up.”

Enormous droplets of blood splattered at their feet as Ronan handed the knife over. Adam gingerly wiped the handle with his shirt and grasped the knife firmly, pressing the blade to the same place Ronan had.

He glanced down. “You might need stitches.”

“Great, fucking thanks.”

Ronan had just finished wrapping the gauze liberally around his hand when the other boy gave a soft cry of success as the door swung open.

Ronan ripped the gauze with his teeth (his hand looked like it had been dressed by a three-year-old) and followed Adam into the hallway, which was was long and dimly lit by bowl-shaped sconces every five feet. Wood trim ran along the green ceiling and tan carpet. It was empty. Adam stopped abruptly, knife-less arm outstretched, and Ronan almost stumbled into him. 

“Hold on,” Adam murmured. He was staring, glassy-eyed, at one of the lights along the wall. He looked like he was in the middle of some sort of… trance? Ronan stared for a long moment, alarmed. Then Adam blinked and shook his head minutely, as though clearing it.

“The Greenmantles are in their suite,” he whispered. “This way.”

They passed the shattered remnants of an enormous vase (Ronan remembered the breaking glass sounds he’d heard when his captors had initially brought him upstairs) and began making their way down a massive staircase when the front door below them opened.

Silently, the pair of them darted back up the stairs and to the relative safety of the hallway.

Adam thought for a moment, then turned on his heel and led Ronan down a different hall (just how large was this house, anyway?) to an enormous framed Renaissance painting. He gripped the frame of the painting and pulled.

The painting, it turned out, was concealing a hidden door that swung open, revealing a narrow flight of wooden stairs that led into semidarkness. A single window in front of them let in the only source of light as Ronan quietly shut the painting-door behind them.

“Servant staircase, I think,” Adam murmured, leading the way. “From the colonial era.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” Ronan hissed.

A rough wooden door blocked their exit at the bottom of a second flight of stairs. Adam pushed experimentally and rattled the knob. Locked. He knelt and began to wiggle the knife in the thin slat next to the handle.

Above them, the painting-door creaked opened.

“ _There_ you are.”

“Go!” Ronan shouted as a blond woman in a tracksuit looked down on them from where she stood, two flights above them. She made no move to follow as Adam shoved open the door with his shoulder, wood splintering loudly as Ronan stumbled after him.

For a bizarre moment, Ronan thought they’d teleported directly into a history museum. Glass display cases of all sizes surrounded them, each lit by a single, sickly yellow light from above. The rest of the room was shrouded in darkness.

Adam tore off down the main aisle and Ronan followed, the carpet beneath them swallowing any noise their footsteps should have made in the cavernous room. Ronan barely registered the contents of the displays that they passed- an ancient book, a ghastly porcelain doll, an empty aquarium that could have fit a shark- before Adam skidded to a halt.

A broad-shouldered figure Ronan didn’t recognize emerged from the darkness, blocking their path. He crossed his hands in front of him.

Even in the eerily dim lighting, the gun in his hand was stark against the gray fabric of his suit.

Something primal recoiled inside of Ronan, the way an animal senses a predator before seeing it. Even without the gun, Ronan knew: this man was dangerous.

Adam stared at the man, panting. The man blankly looked back.

Ronan opened his mouth in a snarl and stepped forward. “Let us get past, you fucking—“

“Please.” Adam said to the man, his tone desperate.

The stranger shifted his weight and Ronan halted, interpreting the movement for the threat that it was.

The man’s face remained impassive. “Give me the knife.” 

“You don’t have to—“

“Adam. The knife.” His tone left no room for argument.

The other teen’s jaw clenched and his knuckles shone white where he clutched the weapon in his hand. 

“Thank you, Mr. Gray,” a woman’s voice sang out.

Adam closed his eyes, his shoulders sinking. Ronan whipped around.

The blond woman strode into view behind them, her pace leisurely and her manicured eyebrows raised in disappointment. He wasn’t sure how someone wearing a pink tracksuit and fanny pack could look intimidating, but she somehow managed it.

“That was _fun_ ,” she said with mock cheerfulness. “Now why don’t we all go back upstairs and try this again like grown-ups?”

*

After frog-marching the pair from the basement back up to Adam’s room (the woman had unearthed a small, silver pistol that she’d pressed to Ronan’s back with great relish), the woman ordered Adam, at gunpoint, to zip-tie Ronan’s left wrist to one of the ornate metal bars that made up the foot of the bed frame.

Before leaving the basement, Adam had reluctantly handed the dream knife to the man called “Mr. Gray” (Ronan wasn’t sure if that was merely a descriptor, or if that was his actual name), and with the knife had gone the spark of defiance Ronan had glimpsed in the other teen during their daring escape attempt.

Now, Adam was avoiding Ronan’s eye and following each of the woman’s barked instructions with slumped shoulders and a defeated expression.

Mr. Gray noted out loud that the lock on the door had been destroyed, but the woman didn’t bother to restrain Adam. She merely looked at him, expression stern, and ordered: “Sit.”

Adam sat a few feet from Ronan, head bowed and arms wrapped loosely around his knees.

The moment Mr. Gray and the woman left the room, Adam glanced at Ronan.

“Sorry,” he said, exhaling and leaning back against the leg of the bed frame. “I knew it was a long shot.”

Outside, Colin Greenmantle’s voice could be heard joining his wife and Mr. Gray, though Ronan couldn’t make out what was being said.

“Don’t fucking apologize. We’ll get out next time.” Ronan gave his restrained wrist an experimental tug. He tried to force his body to relax. He’d been up all night; he was tired enough to dream if he was quick about it. He closed his eyes.

Adam continued, matter-of-fact: “Even if we’d made it outside, there’s barbed wire on the walls. And the townhouse next door is empty, so it's not like anyone would hear us if we yelled for help.”

Ronan slammed his shoulders back against the metal bed rails behind him in frustration, relishing the loud clang and sharp pain the movement wrought.

“It’s like you don’t _want_ us to get out of here,” he snarled, eyes still closed.

“I’m just being realistic,” Adam said. He inhaled sharply, as though he were about to say something, then paused.

“What?” Ronan snapped, eyes opening. Adam’s eyes were on the closed door.

“Whatever it is you’re planning, stop. You need to do what they say. For now.”

“Why?”

“So they trust you.”

“Why the fuck would I--“

Adam’s expression went blank and he looked down at his lap just before the door swung open. The blond woman (Ronan had, by now, realized this was Piper Greenmantle) strode inside, track pants swishing as she walked. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was held back with a black sweatband and each of her fingernails were sharp and perfectly manicured. A stylish black leather fanny pack was strapped around her waist.

Behind her, Mr. Gray entered. His gaze immediately shot to Adam, and something unspoken passed between them; there and gone so fast Ronan wasn’t sure he’d actually noticed anything.

A moment later, Colin Greenmantle limped inside to flank Mr. Gray. Ronan was savagely pleased to note that the man’s neck and cheek were red and swollen, and his expression was tight with pain. He glared at Ronan. Ronan smirked.

Piper marched up to Ronan and squatted, observing him calculatingly, the way someone would a particularly poisonous zoo animal. 

“Does he bite?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ronan snarled, willing her to lean in close enough for him to kick her in those perfect teeth.

Piper bared her teeth at Ronan in a vicious parody of a smile. “You’re going to do what I want.”

“Like fuck I will,” Ronan spat back.

“So how exactly does it work?” Piper continued, suddenly business-like. “Does he need to see the picture first? Or can I just describe what I want and he dreams it up?” 

Greenmantle let out a nervous laugh. “Like I said, I’m not sure,” he admitted.

She turned, eyebrows raised. “Mr. Gray?”

Mr. Gray’s face was utterly blank. If his eyes weren’t so sharply watching the scene unfold before him, Ronan would have thought he was bored.

“As I told you-” he started, his voice as bland as his expression.

“Yes, yes, you don’t kill kids,” Piper said, annoyed.

“Obviously we don’t want you to kill him, we just got him,” Colin Greenmantle jumped in, shooting his wife a pointed look that she breezily ignored. 

“I was _hoping_ you might provide some-“ she made a vaguely violent gesture with her hands- “persuasion.”

“Torture isn’t really my area of expertise,” Mr. Gray said. “I could break his nose, I guess.”

“I fucking dare you to try,” Ronan snarled.

Piper huffed and unzipped her fanny pack, rummaging around for a moment. Triumphant, she brandished an orange pill bottle and rattled its contents.

“I recently met with someone who specializes in these sort of odd magical requests.” She glanced at the handwritten label on the bottle. “These pills are for sleeping _without_ dreaming.” She unearthed a second bottle that was filled with bright red pills. “This one is for sleeping _with_ dreaming, guaranteed or my money back.” She pulled out a third bottle. “And _this_ one is just plain old speed. My contact swore he was giving me a fabulous discount, but as this was my first time buying street drugs, I really have no idea whether that’s true.”

Ronan eyed the second bottle of red pills and scowled, his stomach sinking. He’d recognize Kavinsky’s handiwork anywhere.

“So. Which will it be?” Piper asked, rattling the bottles in Ronan’s direction.

Ronan made a creative suggestion regarding the pill bottle and her husband’s lower anatomy.

“Option three it is,” Piper said definitively, tossing one of the bottles to Mr. Gray. “You’ll need to stay with him for 30 minutes before it really kicks in, and he’ll need a new pill every seven hours. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she told Ronan sweetly. “I’d tell you to sleep well, but you won’t be sleeping at all.” 

“I’m not a babysitter,” Mr. Gray said.

“We’ll pay you extra,” Colin Greenmantle assured him.

“Double, if you can get the little shit to dream something useful,” Piper added.

“Don’t be _too_ rough with him. The goal is to avoid a traumatic head injury, I have no idea if that would impact his abilities.” 

Mr. Gray glanced at the bottle and raised his eyebrows. It was difficult to tell what he thought of the situation.

“I’ll Post-Mates a new door lock,” Piper said, looking down at her phone as she and her husband left the room. Colin Greenmantle shot Ronan a particularly wounded glare as he left. Ronan flipped him off.

Mr. Gray shook a pill onto his hand and pocketed the bottle.

“I advise you not to fight,” he said.

“It’s just something that will keep you awake,” Adam added, looking oddly relieved. Then, quieter, to Ronan: “It could be a lot worse.”

Ronan shot the other teen a lethal glare. Traitor.

Ronan’s entire body was tense, ready for a knock-down, all-out brawl as the grown man approached, pill in hand. Even with one arm restrained, Ronan had no doubt he could take the other man and was eager to prove it.

He was sorely wrong.

Before Ronan knew what was happening, Mr. Gray was suddenly on top of him, slamming his knee into Ronan’s sternum while simultaneously restraining Ronan’s free arm and forcing Ronan’s jaw open.

Ronan floundered violently, gasping for air, as Mr. Gray ruthlessly applied more pressure. Ronan felt his arm actually creak under the strain, his bones grinding together as he struggled.

Mr. Gray dropped the pill into Ronan’s mouth.

“Water?” he asked over his shoulder.

A moment later, water filled Ronan’s mouth and Mr. Gray slammed Ronan’s jaw shut so fast Ronan’s teeth clacked painfully. He thrashed, trying to buck the bigger man off him. It was like having an elephant seated on his chest.

They lay positioned like that for an uncomfortably long time. Well, uncomfortable for Ronan, as he struggled and grunted and tried not to swallow the pill. Mr. Gray looked like it was perfectly natural for him to be steadily half-strangling the life out of someone half his weight, which, maybe it was.

Ronan- maybe out of reflex, maybe out of some latent understanding he was (yet again) fighting a losing battle- eventually swallowed.

Rather than ease up, Mr. Gray immediately leaned in even further, his forearm crushing Ronan’s throat. When it became clear Ronan wasn’t going to puke the pill back up, Mr. Gray released the death grip on his windpipe and backed away, readjusting his suit jacket as he did so. Ronan sagged bonelessly against the bed rails, gasping for air. 

Adam was clutching a glass of water and watching the exchange uneasily. His eyes remained on Ronan as Mr. Gray wandered over to the door to inspect the broken deadbolt.

“The knife did this?” Gray asked, eying the melted metal. He glanced at Ronan. “Impressive.”

“How’s your hand?” Adam asked, suddenly. Ronan leveled a stony stare in his direction.

Adam was no longer looking defeated or cowed, as he’d been after their re-capture, and it dawned on Ronan that Adam’s behavior may have been an act for the Greenmantles. His stomach turned in distaste, as it always did when someone lied to him, as, at the same time, he begrudgingly admitted to himself that the charade had worked. They hadn’t bothered to restrain Adam.

Ronan had forgotten about the cut on his hand. He glanced down. Blood had seeped through the bedraggled gauze and hardened. As if waiting for its cue, his palm twinged painfully.

“Fine,” Ronan croaked.

“Can I see?”

“Fuck off.”

Adam waffled, then put the cup carefully on the carpet next to Ronan. He looked like he wanted to say something, thought better of it, and went to join Mr. Gray where he was now standing next to the wooden table.

Mr. Gray pulled a thin, brown book and a folded sheaf of paper from an interior pocket of his suit jacket and handed them to Adam. They spoke softly, but in the small room, Ronan heard every word.

“Twelfth century poetry,” Gray said as Adam inspected the back cover of the book, his brow furrowed. “I found these works to be very influential at your age.”

Ronan thought the other boy might have been pleased, though it was hard to tell. Since his head was down, Adam missed the way Gray’s expression seemed to soften, for just a moment.

Ronan did not miss this, and filed the information away.

Adam set the small book aside and turned his attention to the sheaf of computer paper, which he spread carefully on the table in front of him, eyes darting eagerly.

He looked up at Mr. Gray. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

Ronan desperately wanted Gray to leave so he could talk to Adam in private and figure out what the hell was going on. They needed to regroup. They needed (and Ronan had never felt more like Gansey as he thought this) a plan. Because- despite Ronan’s continued reservations about the other teen- they were in this together, and there had to be a way out of this shit situation.

Suddenly, Ronan felt a sharp pain in his chest cavity and he inhaled sharply through his teeth. His heart was starting to beat fast- much too fast. Adam started forward, looking concerned, but Mr. Gray’s words stopped him.  
  
“You’ve been given a stimulant,” he explained to Ronan. “You’ll experience an elevated heart rate, increased body temperature--” 

“Yeah, I got it,” Ronan snarled, clutching at his chest

“They won’t let you sleep until you give them what they want,” Mr. Gray said, voice bland.

*

Mr. Gray and Adam continued to pour over the books in Adam’s pile, discussing history and Old English literature ( _dear God_ , Ronan thought bitterly, _I’m surrounded by Ganseys_ ) until Piper showed up with a plastic bag that clinked when she dropped it in the doorway. She never even looked up from her phone.

Together, Mr. Gray and Adam replaced the broken lock on the door, and Ronan seethed as Adam helped rebuild their prison. Their conversation continued, quiet enough that Ronan couldn't hear them. Adam said something, then glanced at Ronan as Mr. Gray responded. 

“If you're talking about me, I’m literally right here,” Ronan said loudly, pissed. Adam pursed his lips and said nothing further to Mr. Gray.

Afterwards, Mr. Gray left, closing and locking the door behind him with an audible slam of the deadbolt.

By now, Ronan’s heart was jack-rabbiting in his chest and he felt both overly warm and clammy with cold sweat. It would be bearable, he decided, if he could at least walk around, let off some steam, but his wrist was firmly attached to the bar behind him and the dream knife was downstairs, in the display room, where Mr. Gray had left it.

“What the fuck is Gray’s deal, man,” Ronan snapped.

“What do you mean?”

Adam was standing at the table, pouring over the papers the suited man had given him.

“You know what I mean. What are you guys, friends?”

“No.”

“Then why is he giving you books about medieval poetry?”

“Because I asked him to.”

Ronan was exhausted and his stomach hurt and he had no idea what time it was but it had to be evening, and he hadn’t slept the night before and he was annoyed at constantly not knowing what was going on.

“Explain. Start at the beginning.”

Adam considered Ronan for a long, calculating moment. Ronan didn’t allow his gaze to falter, even though he felt like his insides were trying to crawl out of his skin.

“If I explain, will you let me look at your hand?”

It was a weird request, but Ronan jerked his head, as if to say _whatever._

Adam grabbed a pillow and disappeared into the bathroom, re-emerging a moment later with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and tweezers. He sat cross-legged in front of Ronan and placed the pillow on his lap. He gestured for Ronan to reach out his hand, which Ronan realized he had been holding reflexively to his chest.

Ronan extended his arm and rested it, palm facing up, on the pillow. Adam leaned forward, examining closely. Ronan could have counted each of Adam’s eyelashes, if he wanted to, and he noticed a circular scar nestled just above the other teen’s clavicle, visible only because Adam was leaning forward and the collar of his shirt was loose from wear.

Ronan didn’t like being this close to the other teen. It felt too intimate, too quick, and they didn’t know each other. He gritted his teeth and slammed his head against the rail behind him and focused on the steady, Virigina-accented voice of the boy in front of him as Adam began to speak.

“Greenmantle brought me here in June. It was a little different than your situation. I agreed to work for him. I figured I’d help him for the summer, like a summer job. Then I could go home when school started.”

Ronan sensed there was more here that Adam wasn’t telling him. But, fine. They were both allowed their secrets. Adam poured some water on the blood-crusted gauze and began to unwrap it. His long, deft fingers bumped into Ronan’s as he worked, using the tweezers to loosen the gauze as he went. Adam continued:

“It was fine, at first. He didn’t want me to leave the house, but it’s not like I had anywhere to go. He’d bring me books, DVDs, whatever I asked for. Mostly he just left me alone, unless he needed me to help him find magical objects for his collection. He’d throw these big parties and have me entertain the guests. Tarot cards, dumb party tricks. I really hated that part, actually. But-" Adam lifted one shoulder- "it beat bagging groceries all summer. Sorry, did that hurt?”

Ronan’s skin did not want to part with the gauze adhered to it. “Rip it,” Ronan said, careless. “Band-aid.”

Adam pressed his lips together and poured more water on Ronan’s palm, worrying at the brown gauze there with the tweezers. Ronan noticed that Adam, once given a challenge, was intent, studious, and sure of himself. He wasn’t flattening his accent anymore, like he had been earlier.

“I eventually figured out that Greenmantle wasn’t gonna let me go,” Adam continued, his cadence simple and easy on the ears. “I tried to run.” He gestured vaguely towards his ankle. “You saw how that went.”

“And Gray?”

“I met him at one of their parties. Maybe a month ago? I’d seen him around the house, he’s worked for the Grenmantles for awhile. We talked about Medieval history. He’s actually written books on the topic, and he can read Old English. There are a lot of historical texts about wizards and what they could do, you know, people with weird psychic powers like mine. So he’s very interested in my abilities, from a scholastic perspective.”

Ronan tried (and failed) to imagine Gray, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, penning a history book or pouring over medieval texts.

“And he never tried to get you out of here?” Ronan hissed.

Adam swallowed. “I asked…” He faltered, and the raw betrayal on his face surprised Ronan. Then his expression closed. “Greenmantle has something on Mr. Gray. He’s blackmailing him, I think. Gray won’t disobey Greenmantle directly. But he brings me books, and food when he can, and he’s never hurt me. Even when Piper asked him to.”

“Give the man a medal. What exactly does he _do_ for Greenmantle?”

Adam’s lips quirked, ironically. “Pretty sure he’s a hitman.”

“Why the fuck would an antiques collector need a _hitman_?”

“Stop moving.”

Chastened, Ronan unclenched his fist. His hatred for Gray-the-hitman grew. Whatever reasons the man had for obeying Greenmantle- for keeping Adam prisoner- Ronan wasn’t interested. His actions were inexcusable. 

“That’s fucked up,” Ronan said, because he felt like it needed to be said. Then- “Where are we?”

“Belmont. Outside Boston.”

“Are the windows-?”

“We’re on the second story, and I’d need a screwdriver to get the boards down. Believe me, I tried. Ah.”

The last bit of gauze had been successfully removed. The cut (razor thin and running from one end of his palm to the other in a precise, diagonal line) wasn’t as terrible as Ronan thought it would be.

Adam’s cavalier attitude about being imprisoned disturbed Ronan, but he supposed the other teen had had quite a lot more time to get used to the idea. 

Adam carefully tipped hydrogen peroxide into Ronan’s palm. The cut immediately bubbled and pain shot up Ronan’s wrist.

“Fuck, man!”

“Quit being a baby,” Adam said, wrenching Ronan’s hand towards him and firmly placing it back on the pillow. “And _stop moving_.”

Ronan stewed in his misery, but in truth, it didn’t hurt too badly. His concern, frankly, was for his fucking heart, which was working overtime. He closed his eyes and tried to modulate his breathing. He’d seen Kavinsky and other members of the gang pop Adderall like candy, and none of them had died of heart attacks. 

Fingers brushed against his knuckles, gentle and accidental, as Adam wrapped fresh gauze around Ronan’s palm. Ronan gritted his teeth. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been _gentle_ with him. He’d normally never let them be. He should really tell Adam whatever-his-last-name was to fuck off.

“What’s your last name?” Ronan demanded, eyes still closed.

Something tickled at the back of his mind, then. Names. There was… something about names. Something he’d missed. What was it?

“Parrish.”

“Well, fuck off, Parrish. My hand’s fine.”

“I’m done anyway. Jesus.”

Ronan opened his eyes. His palm was cleanly wrapped, all traces of dried blood removed.

“No playing hockey for a week, doctor’s orders,” Adam told him, gathering his supplies and standing.

“What about tennis?”

“Ha, ha.”

“What time is it?” The windows, boarded and draped as they were, gave no indication of whether the sun had set.

Adam glanced at the cheap plastic watch on his wrist. “5:14PM. Are you hungry?”

Now that Adam had mentioned it, Ronan realized he was. “Yeah.”

Adam disappeared from Ronan’s sight, around the side of the bed. Ronan heard a _thump_ behind him.

He crouched as best he could, wrist dangling awkwardly above him, and pulled up the burgundy dust cover.

Adam was under the bed, flat on his stomach, examining a half-dozen cereal boxes and plastic-wrapped food items that crinkled when he touched them. He called out: “We’ve got granola, Ritz crackers… uh, more crackers… beef jerky… Spider-Man fruit roll-ups…” He glanced up, and realized Ronan was only a few feet away. “Oh. Do any of those sound good?”

“You tell me.”

“What?” Adam’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Can’t you read my mind?”

Adam narrowed his eyes. “I’m not that kind of psychic.”

Ronan scoffed. “Useless. Fine. Jerky. And the fruit roll-ups.”

Adam slid the requested items towards Ronan, grabbed a cereal box for himself, and scooted backwards. He rejoined Ronan at the foot of the bed and sat, knees drawn up to his chest.

“I should have known you’d have the food preferences of a six-year-old,” he commented.

“Better than that gerbil food.”

“It’s granola.” Adam reached into the box and carefully withdrew a handful of cereal, careful not to spill a crumb.

They ate in silence. The eating helped, a little, but Ronan couldn’t stop feeling like he was going to crawl out of his skin. He rubbed at his chest, wincing.

“So, Parrish, what’s the plan?” 

“The plan?” Adam asked. “I don’t-“

“Don’t play dumb. It’s a bad look on you.”

It was a shot in the dark, actually, but Ronan was starting to realize that Adam was a lot more clever than he’d initially let on. Adam chewed carefully, his expression guarded. If there was one thing Ronan was good at, though, it was enduring long, awkward silences. Ronan waited him out.

Finally, Adam said, “Can you trust me?”

Ronan raised a skeptical eyebrow in response.

Adam continued: “I do have a plan, sort of. I don’t know yet if it will work, but it’s my- well, now, _our_ \- best option. Can you trust me to see it through? Even if I don’t tell you the details just yet?”

Ronan remained silent.

“I’ll tell you everything once I’ve figured a few things out. But it’s best if you don’t know, for now. Lessens the chance of you messing things up.”

The accusation rankled. “I wouldn’t ‘mess things up’.”

“Not intentionally.”

“ _Fuck you_ , man.” Ronan forgot, momentarily, that he was restrained and he tried to stand.

Adam made a noise of frustration and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Give it a few days, okay? Just, please, go along with what they want-"

“Fat fucking chance-"

“And I promise, I’ll tell you everything when I-"

The door unlocked, silencing them both. Adam grabbed the pile of beef jerky wrappers next to Ronan and hastily shoved them under the bed.

Mr. Gray was back, carrying a fast food bag that he dropped at Adam’s feet.

“The Dreamer doesn’t get anything,” Mr. Gray warned. “Greenmantle’s orders.”

After he’d left, Adam was silent for a long time. Ronan felt the anger leaking from him as quickly as it arrived. Now he was just tired.

“I promise, Ronan,” Adam said quietly, splitting his burger down the middle and handing Ronan the larger half. “ I know I’m asking a lot. I’m sorry about that. But I _will_ get you out of here. It will just take time.”

Ronan leaned back against the metal bars of the bed. He accepted the burger.

He did not give Adam a response.

*

“Are you bored? I have lots of books,” Adam said from where he was seated on the bed, hunched over the printouts Gray had given him. 

Several hours had passed, during which Ronan had tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. To dream. With the amphetamines coursing through his system, it was impossible, but closing his eyes helped stave off the monster headache that had been building all evening.

Reading was not very high on Ronan’s list of hobbies, but he really was bored. He shrugged.

Adam leaned over, towards the impressive stack of books on his bedside table.

“I’ve been teaching myself geometry, so I have a workbook you could do, and this one’s a Spanish-English dictionary. I made vocab note cards. For fiction, I’ve got _The Illiad, Lord of the Flies_ …”

Ronan stared at Adam, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’ve spent the past three months _doing homework_.”

Adam’s expression was reproachful. “The school year's starting. I don’t want to fall behind.”

Forget the amphetamines. _Adam_ was going to be the reason Ronan had a heart attack. A teenager doing homework when he didn’t need to- it was downright alarming.

“I'm not gonna read it if it’s educational, man. I’m still on summer break.”

Adam rolled his eyes, tugged a newspaper out from somewhere and tossed it towards Ronan at the foot of the bed. 

“You gonna make me write an essay on it later?”

“Only if you keep whining.”

Adam settled back down on his bed and Ronan- well, Ronan read the newspaper.

It was difficult (the words kept blurring, and his head pounded in rhythm with his pulse), but it took his mind off things for awhile, hate-reading about the latest charity endeavors of the British royal family (“useless, pretentious pricks”, as Niall liked to call them) and a boring op-ed about politics (Ronan hadn’t known it was a presidential election year, and he was annoyed that reading the newspaper had, inadvertently, proven to be somewhat educational).

Mr. Gray appeared again (Ronan kept losing track of time), and forced another pill down Ronan’s throat. As before, Ronan fought viciously but ultimately lost the battle, and he pointedly ignored Adam’s pained expression after Mr. Gray left.

Ronan toyed with the newspaper, listless, as Adam performed what must have been his nightly routine: there were the sounds of a shower, teeth being brushed, a toilet being flushed, and Adam eventually emerged from the bathroom in a different t-shirt and shorts, his brown hair damp and stringy where it clung to his forehead.

“…light on?”

“Huh?” Ronan had zoned out.

“Do you want me to leave the light on tonight? Since you’ll be awake?”

“Whatever.”

Adam turned off the overhead light but left his bedside lamp on, casting the room in an orange glow that might have been cozy if their circumstances had been different.

Adam slept. Ronan did not.

It was impossible to know how much time had passed, but every so often Ronan would jolt into awareness, momentarily unsure of his surroundings. The woman featured in one of the wall portraits seemed to be watching him. He scrubbed at his head and face with his hand, willing his hands- his entire body- to stop shaking.

 _You trust too damn easily_ , Kavinsky said.

Ronan startled, but there was no one there.

He and Kavinsky had never spoken of the dream they’d shared in the field. Sure, they’d talked about the forest they’d brought back, and Kavinsky had relished in discussing the fire, but they'd never talked about the dream itself, or the hint of a promise it contained.

Ronan wasn’t even sure if Kavinsky was gay or if he just liked the control he had over Ronan. Because there was no doubt in Ronan’s mind that Kavinsky’s influence over him was a wild, many-headed thing that Ronan couldn’t put words to, and every time he thought of the other teen- the glazed, knowing stare, the smell of cigarettes that Kavinsky wore like a blanket, the sharp taste of gasoline that preceded a race- hatred would harden in Ronan’s gut.

Hatred for Kavinsky? Perhaps.

But largely hatred for himself, for knowing that it would only take a text or an abrupt voicemail, left at 3am with words barely discernable over the pounding bass of the Mitsubishi’s speakers, for Ronan to drop everything he was doing and meet Kavinsky at Proko’s house party or on the side of the interstate or at the field-turned-junk yard that held the wildest and most improbable of Kavinsky’s dreams.

Kavinsky liked to joke that Gansey had Ronan on a leash. Ronan thought (feared) that, without him realizing it, the leash had transferred owners.

 _Why?_ Ronan asked the Kavinsky inside his head, unable to disguise his dispair as anything other than what it was. _Why would you sell me out to Greenmantle? Was I not enough for you?_

But the night held no answers, only the faint, barely-audible _tik tok_ emanating from Adam’s wristwatch on the bedside table.

*

The watch beeped loudly, startling Ronan from his reverie. Hours had passed.

Or had it been days?

He couldn’t be sure.

It was like being trapped in a nightmare.

Maybe he was?

Was what?

Trapped in a nightmare. 

Yes.

He had to be.

He couldn't breath.

“Cabeswater?” Ronan croaked.

Something shifted behind him, rocking the bed.

“What?” the voice was sleepy, confused. Someone yawned.

“Did you say something, Ronan?”

The bed shifted again and Adam Parrish came into view above Ronan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair was messy. Ronan groaned as, with a jolt, he remembered where he was.

He wasn't dreaming.

“Hey,” Adam said, concerned. He put a hand tentatively to Ronan’s shoulder, giving him a little shake. “You okay?”

Ronan looked up to meet Adam’s eye, and Adam’s frown deepened.

“Ronan, can you hear me? Shit, you’re burning up. Hold on-"

Ronan wanted (needed) to sleep. It had been… two days, right? He tried to remember. First they’d brought him here in the van; that had taken all night. And then, he'd been given the drugs the night before. Yes. Two nights. He felt ill. His heart pounded.

Adam returned and pressed a cold washcloth to Ronan’s head.

“’M fine,” Ronan said. 

The door opened. Someone entered.

It took Ronan a moment to place the brute of a man. It was Hal, one of the thugs who’d kidnapped him in the Barns driveway.

Hal’s face was red and shiny, and it took Ronan another minute to remember the dreamed insects, and the stings. He didn’t have the energy to feel triumphant.

“Time to take your medicine,” Hal spat.

Adam stiffened. “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand.

Hal aimed a kick in Adam’s direction. “Move, psychic.”

“Wait, stop.” Adam said again, dodging the kick and then quickly maneuvering himself so he was crouched in front of Ronan, blocking him from view of the bigger man. “If you give him another stimulant, it’ll kill him. Look at him.”

“I got my orders. Either he dreams, or he gets a pill.”

Adam spun around and grabbed Ronan’s shoulders, shaking him urgently. “Ronan, please say you’ll dream for them.”

Adam’s face split into two in Ronan’s blurry vision- then back to one, then two—

Ronan must have fallen sideways because Adam was pulling him back upright. His eyes, deep and blue, were filled with fear.

Ronan thought they might mirror his own.

“’kay,” Ronan croaked.

“Okay? Okay, you’ll do it?”

Ronan jerked his head in agreement. Relief flooded Adam’s features. He looked to Hal, hands still firmly planted on Ronan’s shoulders.

“Tell the Greenmantles he’ll do it. He’ll dream for them.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr @ [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)


	3. three

Adam was speaking, and Ronan realized he hadn’t managed to absorb a single word the other teen was saying.

“What?”

Adam shook his head, giving up. He stood next to the bed, gripping his hands around his elbows and looking tense.

Moments- or maybe hours- later, Colin and Piper Greenmantle entered the room. They looked, Ronan thought distractedly, like they belonged on the sort of TV shows Declan liked to watch, ones that involved people in tailored suits walking around urgently and exchanging cutting, witty banter that always flew over Ronan’s head.

Hal, with his sleeveless plaid shirt and pockmarked face, ruined the illusion a bit as he lumbered in after the pair.

“I understand you’re ready to dream for us,” Piper said. She was wearing a powder blue blouse and black slacks. “I’d like to show you what will happen if you deceive us again.” She nodded to Hal.

Hal waddled forward, hatred in his eyes. He drew back his meaty fist, and Ronan felt a jolt of adrenaline as he tensed himself to meet it. Blood and sweat, missing teeth and scraped skin- this, and only this, could ease the awful restlessness coursing beneath Ronan’s skin. He welcomed the punch.

Hal’s fist slammed into Adam’s jaw.

“ _No_ ,” Ronan snarled, jerking forward uselessly.

Adam flew backwards, his upper shoulders slamming into the mattress as blood splattered his face and shirt. He scrambled to stay upright as Hal stepped forward and buried his fist in the teenager’s gut. Adam made a terrible, nearly inaudible sound of pain as he crumpled to the ground, arms raised to protect his head.

“What’re you-- stop, **_stop it_** ,” Ronan shouted, voice cracking with strain.

Hal's face was screwed in concentration as he grabbed a fistful of Adam’s hair and landed another punch to the psychic’s stomach.

Piper’s voice rang out, “Now shoot him in the kneecap.”

Hal pulled a handgun from the waistband of his jeans.

“Piper!” Greenmantle exclaimed, exasperated. “Stop ruining my stuff!”

“He doesn’t need his legs to flip cards,” Piper said dismissively. “Go on.”

Hal released his hold on Adam- Adam crumpled to the floor- and flipped the gun’s safety off with a barely-audible _click_.

“ ** _Stop_** ,” Ronan croaked again. “I said I’d do it.”

“I don’t believe you,” Piper said shortly. To Hal: “Shoot him.”

Ronan was on his knees, blood leaking down his wrist as he strained against the zip tie.

“I’ll dream whatever— I swear _, goddamnit, **I’ll dream you whatever you want**!_”

Piper held up her hand. Hal sighed, but obediently did not pull the trigger.

Ronan repeated, quickly, “Anything you want. I’m not lying.” His heart thundered in his chest. _Please please please--_

Ronan held the woman’s gaze, allowed her to see the desperate, earnest truth in his words. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam lay immobile on the ground.

“You bring back anything besides the necklace, the psychic gets a bullet. Capiche?” 

She waited for Ronan’s curt nod before pulling out the now-familiar photo of the necklace. Hand shaking, Ronan took the photo from her.

It was a gaudy, ornate piece of jewelry, dripping with rubies, diamonds and other precious stones. It looked very old. Ronan studied the glittering jewels, the tarnished metal, the unique curved clasp, committing each detail to memory.

Piper smiled sweetly. “I’ll know if the jewels are fake,” she said. “And I want the necklace to be magical, somehow...”

“What if it strangled whoever wears it?” Colin suggested brightly.

“ _Love_ that,” Piper said. To Ronan, she said, “You got that, Dreamer? Chop, chop, now.”

She held out a red pill that looked ominous and stark between her two perfectly manicured fingers.

Ronan placed the photo down and reached for the pill mechanically. Panic and rage warred in his chest as he dry swallowed it, choking it down, forcing his mind to overpower his body’s reflex to expel the foreign object.

Several feet from him, Adam’s face was still turned away, his tortured breathing the only sound in the small room. Hal still had the gun aimed at the psychic’s leg.

For a moment, nothing happened. And then, Ronan was thrown violently into a dream.

Cabeswater, possibly reflecting Ronan’s current mental state, was awash in a sea of anger and confusion. Rain lashed at Ronan’s back and thunder crackled overhead.

 _Thief!_ The trees cried through the torrential downpour.

“I am the Greywarren!” Ronan cried out. “I’m not a thief”.

 _They have turned you into a thief,_ the trees shrieked _. We will not tolerate it._

“I don’t have a choice.” He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, tried to hold the image of the necklace in his mind’s eye: the glint of rubies, the shine of gold, the deadly magic it needed to possess—

The ground rolled beneath him. An earthquake. Ronan barely remained upright.

 _Stop it,_ he thought. _Let me—_

Desperation brought a level of focus he didn’t realize he was capable of. He felt the cool weight of a metal chain drop into his open palm. Not a chain, he realized with grim satisfaction: a necklace.

The wind howled overhead, and Ronan pulled away from his dream as the white-hot, sizzling heat of lightning bolted towards him-

He was back in the bedroom, slumped over where he’d been thrown into unconsciousness. He was paralyzed, but he could feel the pointed edges of each precious stone digging into his right palm where it rested on his thigh.

Greenmantle gasped in delight and clapped twice.

“What did I tell you?” Piper demanded. The necklace was ripped from Ronan’s stiff fingers. “It’s all about finding the right pressure points.”

“Incredible,” Greenmantle murmured. “Piper, you genius.” There was the uncomfortable slurping sound of a kiss.

“Enough already,” Piper said. “You can thank me if this necklace fools Daddy.”

“Does it work?” Greenmantle asked excitedly. “Think it’ll kill whoever wears it?”

“Want to try it on and find out?” Piper asked waspishly. Then- “What wrong with him? Why isn’t he moving?” Someone nudged Ronan’s foot with their own. “Wake up, Dreamer!”

“Is he dead?” Greenmantle asked, sounding annoyed. “And just when we got him working, too!”

“He’s breathing,” Piper pointed out.

“What’s going on?” Greenmantle demanded. Ronan wondered who Greenmantle could be talking to. “Why isn’t he awake? Well?”

“I… don’t know for sure,” Adam’s voice was weak. He coughed wetly. “I think it’s normal. It takes a lot of energy to… dream things. I felt it. His body is… recharging, I think.”

The door squeaked open. “I’m going to Facetime Daddy,” Piper announced. There was the shuffle of feet.

“For when he wakes up,” Greenmantle said, although the directive made no sense to Ronan. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said.

“Absolutely incredible,” Greenmantle said, startlingly close to Ronan. Ronan’s restrained wrist was jostled slightly, and a moment later there was a loud _snip_. His wrist fell freely to the ground.

“Best investment I’ve ever made,” Greenmantle said, moving away. The door shut and was locked from the outside. For a long moment, there was silence.

Ronan felt a shift in the air near him- the presence of a nearby body- and for a terrible moment he feared Hal had stayed behind in the room. But it was Adam’s voice that broke the silence.

“Ronan?”

Ronan, still paralyzed, couldn’t move, couldn’t open his eyes. For once, he was grateful. He was disturbed by how carelessly, how violently, the Greenmantles had ordered Hal to treat Adam, and he didn’t want to look at the other boy’s face right now. At the damage that had been done due to Ronan’s stubbornness.

“Ronan, can you hear me? They’re gone. If you can hear me-” Adam’s voice cracked. He was crying, Ronan realized with a sickening jolt.

When he spoke again, the psychic’s voice was a small, broken thing. “Please don’t leave me alone with them. I don’t think I can survive it anymore.”

There was another long silence, punctuated by the occasional sniffle. Ronan’s mind drifted as he waited for his muscles to unlock. How fucked up was Adam, he wondered, to want Ronan alive and well after what Ronan’s actions had just put him through? If their situations were reversed- God, Ronan would be furious.

“It’s not so terrible,” Adam said. His voice was steadier, though he sounded like he had a head cold. “If you do what they want, they leave you alone. It’s not much of a life, but it’s better than being dead. So. _Wake the fuck up_.”

Adam exhaled audibly. There was the rustle of fabric, a sharp inhale of pain, a muttered swear, and Adam’s footsteps padded away from Ronan. Sink water ran for a moment, then shut off. 

Ronan’s mobility returned to him. He opened his eyes. Adam was exiting the bathroom, shirtless. His torso was reddened and blotchy and a horrible cut had congealed across his nose and cheek; Hal had been wearing a ring.

“You’re alive. My suffering continues.” Adam’s voice was flat, devoid of any trace of his earlier emotion.

“It’s my face they should’ve fucked up,” Ronan said in lieu of an apology.

“Well, you’re the new, shiny toy. They’re not as concerned about breaking me,” Adam said, moving to the chest of drawers and pulling out a new t-shirt. Under his breath, he added, bitterly: “Can’t break something that’s already broken.”

He gingerly pulled the t-shirt on over his head. Ronan could have counted Adam’s ribs; the other boy could do with a few square meals.

Ronan’s vision started doubling, again, and he closed his eyes as he was hit with a wave of nausea. He was so, _so_ damn tired.

“Take the bed,” Adam said. Then he faltered. “Um, Greenmantle said… I mean, it’s just so you don’t dream…”

Adam was holding a white sleeping pill and looking at the ground, shame-faced. But Ronan understood. If Ronan dreamed something he wasn’t supposed to, it was Adam who would take the punishment, not Ronan.

Ronan, bone-tired as he was, was in no shape to fight, anyway. Not right now, at least.

“Fine,” Ronan rasped. He tried to get his legs under him, to stand, but the world tilted on its axis and he would have fallen if Adam had not immediately been in front of him, hands grasping Ronan’s forearms, steadying him and guiding him to the bedside.

Ronan fell onto the bed. He could already feel the tug of exhaustion. Of sleep. Of Cabeswater.

“Here,” Adam said apologetically.

Ronan opened his mouth, and Adam gingerly placed the pill inside. He grabbed a glass of water off the bedside table and held it to Ronan’s lips. Ronan gulped eagerly before turning his face away. He wondered if this was how Chainsaw felt, helpless and childish, every time he fed her worms.

Adam hovered at Ronan’s side, worrying at his bottom lip with this teeth.

“Does it feel okay?” he asked. “Not like the other pills, right?”

Ronan felt the effects of Kavinsky’s creation pulling him downwards into unconsciousness. He had no energy for fear, but still, he was glad Adam was there. He wanted to apologize for Adam’s face. To say he’d never meant for him to get hurt.

Instead, darkness enveloped his vision, and Ronan slept.

*

Ronan re-entered the unfamiliar waking world gasping for breath. He sat upright, filled with dread but unsure why. His brain automatically tried to recall whatever dream he’d just woken from, but there was a black, gaping hole where that memory should be. He realized he hadn’t dreamed at all.

The room was nearly pitch-black, the only source of light a thin sliver beneath a doorway that was nowhere near where his bedroom door should be. Missing, too, were the familiar concrete walls of Monmouth and the floor-to-ceiling windows that Ronan usually left open so Chainsaw could come and go as she pleased.

All at once, he remembered where he was, and the feeling of dread, while unwelcome, was finally justified. He had a headache, but it was nowhere near as bad as the hangovers Ronan often endured, so he ignored it.

His eyes were drawn to an inexplicable, glowing green square on the ground beside the bed. He spent several moments staring in utter confusion before he realized he was looking at a watch face. Upside down, the time read: 6:52AM. _Shit_. He must’ve slept all day and through the next night.

The watch, he realized, was attached to the wrist of one Adam Parrish, who was curled up on the throw rug in front of the nonfunctioning electric fireplace.

Ronan considered his options. He could dream something, now. Maybe. Though, whatever pill he’d been given had prevented him from dreaming, and he wasn’t sure how long the effects would last.

And then there were consequences to consider.

Ronan wasn’t in the habit of weighing the consequences of his actions, and in any other scenario, a risk to Ronan’s health or well-being was hardly a risk at all. But now, he had his- roommate, for lack of a better term- to think about.

Besides, his dreams were unpredictable. What if he brought back a night terror? What if he brought back a weapon too obvious to be concealed and Greenmantle hurt Adam again? Ronan’s gut twisted with indecision. He would feel better about making a decision if he knew the psychic was on board.

At exactly 7:00AM, the wristwatch beeped loudly. Adam sat up, yawning, and a moment later the alarm turned off. Adam twisted his torso, first one way, than the other, his spine cracking loudly.

“That can’t be good for you,” Ronan observed.

Adam spun around, though he was more shadow than human at the moment, so Ronan couldn’t see much more than a dark outline of the teen.

“Heeeey,” Adam said, the word drawn out as he yawned mid-way through.

Ronan snorted.

“Sorry, not awake yet.”

“Go back to bed, then.” Ronan tugged a pillow free from beneath him and tossed it to Adam. It bounced harmlessly off Adam’s chest and fell to the ground.

“Hey,” Adam said again, this time indignant.

“Is there a reason you have your alarm set for the ass crack of dawn?”

“Good to stick to a routine.” Adam stumbled to his feet and turned on the overhead lights.

Ronan could remember the violent encounter from the day before, but his deep sleep and incapacitated state at the time had blurred the edges of the memory. Seeing Adam brought the incident sharply back into focus.

The right side of the slender teenager’s face had become a grotesque display of purples, greys and reds that darkened both eyes and his cheekbone. His nose, Ronan realized grimly, was definitely broken. Ronan- who had been in more fights than he could count- usually relished in battle scars, but seeing these injuries on Adam felt utterly, jarringly _wrong_.

Adam was wearing a faded blue hoodie, and Ronan realized with a stab of annoyance that, rather than taking the duvet Ronan was sleeping on (it’s not like Ronan would’ve noticed), Adam had simply done without.

“You could’ve had the blanket. Hell, you could’ve kicked me off the bed, man,” Ronan said wearily.

Adam shrugged. “You were out like a light. I kept checking your pulse to make sure you hadn’t died.”

“I’m touched.” Ronan said it bluntly, but in actuality, he _was_ sort of touched by the gesture. It was something Gansey would have done.

While Adam ate “breakfast” (Ronan couldn’t condone that gerbil granola as a bona fide food item), Ronan showered. The short journey to the bathroom exhausted him and he found himself sitting heavily in the bathtub under the stream of scalding water until it turned lukewarm and he couldn’t avoid facing his new roommate any longer.

He dressed in the jeans and muscle tee he’d arrived in, but his socks were rank enough that he left them balled up next to the toilet. He considered re-wrapping his hand, but the cut had scabbed over and had reached the itchy stage of healing, so he didn’t bother.

The carpet was thick and plush beneath his bare feet as he joined Adam at the table and collapsed into a second chair that had appeared sometime while he'd slept. Without looking up from his reading, Adam moved a stack of books to the floor and placed a box of Pop Tarts in front of Ronan.

Ronan tore into the box- he was _starving_ \- and caught Adam glance at his wrist, where the zip tie had cut into his skin.

“What d’you think, doc?”

“Amputation’s the only option,” Adam said dryly.

Adam turned his attention back to the computer printouts Gray had given him two days prior (Christ, that felt like a lifetime ago) and templed his long fingers beneath his chin, elbows on the table. Ronan was struck by how elegant he managed to make the gesture look, despite his bruised face and faded sweatshirt.

Ronan pulled the top sheet towards himself. It was an academic article, the title reading:

 **Controlling the Detachment of the Mind from the Body  
** **by Persephone Podmore, PhD**

Adam continued: “I asked for another tooth brush, and more clothes since there are two of us now. No promises, but Mr. Gray will see what he can do.”

Ronan looked up, irritated. “I’m not here on vacation, man.”

Adam raised his unblinking blue eyes to meet Ronan’s, his expression impossible to read. Finally, his voice low and distant, he said, “When the opportunity comes, we’ll take it. But until then, you may as well be comfortable.”

*

After the way things had gone down during his first 48 hours of imprisonment, Ronan figured his demise would likely result from another battle of wills with Piper, or by pissing a gun-wielding Hal off. He quickly realized, however, that his death would actually probably be the result of an unlikely cause: absolute, mind-numbing, all-encompassing _boredom_. 

While Ronan had been asleep the day before, Adam had apparently convinced Colin Greenmantle that the amount of amphetamines they’d administered had been nearly lethal, so when Hal arrived shortly after breakfast, gun drawn (“Just _give_ me an excuse to use it, punk”), the white pill he shoved at Ronan was split in half.

Ronan could fight against a lot, but he couldn’t really argue with the barrel of a handgun, so he swallowed the pill without causing a scene, though he openly smirked at the painful-looking red blotches that still marred the bigger man’s arms and face.

Ronan, now fully awake and with an inordinate amount of focus once the drug kicked in, then spent the next six hours tearing himself and their small room apart, pacing around like a caged animal, examining every square inch for a possible escape route, paging listlessly through Adam’s books and starting stilted conversations with the psychic that generally had Adam sighing in exasperation as Ronan, unable to stop himself, interrupted the other teen again and again.

Around lunchtime, Ronan threw himself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts chasing each other in circles.

Surely by now, Gansey had noticed Ronan was missing. His best friend would spare no expense in ensuring the search for Ronan was both exhaustive and well-publicized. Aglionby, for their part, would want him found; a missing student would be a blight on the school’s record, even if school hadn’t been in session at the time of the disappearance.

Would Gansey think to ask Kavinsky? Maybe not, but Declan would _definitely_ suspect the Bulgarian coke head, Ronan thought savagely. In fact, Kavinsky would be the very first person Declan would hunt down for information, and what Ronan wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall for _that_ encounter.

“Do you _mind_?” Adam blurted.

“What?” Ronan demanded, propping himself up on his elbows.

“You’re grinding your teeth _really_ loudly.”

It was a side-effect of the amphetamines, actually, but Ronan didn’t bother telling Adam this. Instead, he slid off the bed and crashed to the floor where Adam was kneeling on the carpet.

In front of the psychic were three Tarot cards and a red plastic bowl filled with cranberry juice. Adam had been staring intently at the cards and the bowl for the better part of an hour.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?”

Adam breathed out, sharply, through his teeth. “Astral projection.”

“Bless you.”

Adam pursed his lips, unamused. 

“So what is astra-whatever?” Ronan prodded.

Adam eyed Ronan carefully, as though to ensure the question was genuine. Ronan forced himself not to fidget.

Finally, Adam said, “Do you know what scrying is?”

Ronan didn’t. Adam continued. “I’ve always been able to scry, even when I was little. I just didn’t know it had a name.”

When Ronan didn’t interrupt, Adam slowly gathered the cards in front of him, placing them back into his deck. His brow was furrowed as he shuffled, as though the motion was buying him time while he thought.

When he spoke again, his voice was like a warm Virginia summer, reflective and unhurried.

“Sometimes, when I look at water, or a mirror, or a bright light, I see things. Things that are happening in real time, in other places.” His dark blue eyes were distant, the grotesque bruises around them heightening the otherworldly effect.

“For example. When I was a kid, if I wondered where my parents were at any given moment, I could look at the bathroom mirror and see that my dad was at the bar, or that my mom was at a friend’s house. When I’m taking a test, I can usually go through the textbook in my mind to find the right answer. For the longest time, I thought I just had a really good photographic memory. But then I realized I could look through books I’d never read before. That can give me headaches, though.

“My dad used to make me sit in on his poker games, and I could see everyone else’s cards if I stared hard enough at the overhead light. I’d step on his foot when he should fold. He won a lot of money that way.” Adam pressed his lips into a sad, firm line.

“Didn’t work with the slots, though, or roulette. I told him, all the time, ‘I can’t see the future’, but he’d make me come anyway, then get mad when I couldn’t accurately predict the outcome. He always said I was lying on purpose.”

Adam rubbed absent-mindedly at his collarbone, and Ronan remembered the circular scar he’d seen there the day he’d arrived- a burn mark approximately the shape of a cigarette butt. He felt a flare of anger at Adam’s dad, whoever he was.

Adam shook himself from his reverie. “Anyway. That’s scrying. I didn’t know it had a name, but after I came here, Greenmantle gave me all these books and I realized that’s what I’ve been doing all this time.”

Ronan had seen the books, stacked next to the bed, with titles like _Journeying Outside the Body_ and _Seeing Into the Beyond_. He’d eyed them mistrustfully and given them a wide berth.

“Astral projection is a step further than scrying,” Adam continued. “It’s the idea that you can project your energy, your consciousness, outside your body. I’ve done it before, but mostly on accident. When I wanted to get away from my body…” Adam trailed off, his expression haunted. “Anyway. I’ve been working on astral projection all summer.”

He glanced at Ronan. “You look skeptical.”

“That’s just how my face looks,” Ronan shot back, but he was, in fact, skeptical. And a little unnerved.

“You pull things from your dreams,” Adam pointed out. “Are you really having such a hard time believing I can see things outside myself?”

Ronan shrugged. Adam crossed his arms. “I’ll prove it. Put your hands behind your back. Now hold up some fingers.”

Ronan did so. Adam looked at the reflective liquid in the bowl in front of him. “Three.”

“Lucky guess.”

“Seven. Two,” Adam rattled off as Ronan threw up various fingers.

“Three again. Oh, very mature,” Adam said, shooting Ronan an unimpressed look as Ronan stuck up his middle finger behind his back.

“What else?” Ronan asked, still not entirely convinced, though he really had no reason not to be. He remembered Adam’s uncanny ability to seemingly sense whenever the Greenmantles were about to enter their room. “Can you see the rest of the house?”

Adam narrowed his eyes. Then, assured that Ronan wasn’t mocking him, he leaned over the bowl again. His eyes went glassy and unfocused.

“Greenmantle’s at his computer… Piper’s in the living room, she’s doing yoga and talking on the phone… she’s talking to… I think her father, about the Dream- oh, they’re talking about you…” Adam was silent for a long moment before he blinked, his expression shuttering as he pulled away from the bowl.

Ronan whistled, low and long. “That’s freaky as hell, Parrish.”

He must have sounded accusatory rather than impressed because Adam’s ears reddened as he crossed his arms defensively. “Sorry.”

“It was fucking awesome,” Ronan clarified, and Adam’s shoulders loosened a little. Then, Adam bit his lip anxiously.

“Piper’s upset. The rubies were glass. And the magic didn’t work.”

It took a minute for Ronan to piece together that Adam was talking about the dream necklace, and immediately his gut twisted. “What else did she say?”

“She’s coming back up here. To make you dream it again.”

“I didn’t make the rubies fake on purpose,” Ronan said, because he hadn’t. “I don’t know what real rubies fucking feel like.”

Adam shrugged again, helplessly. “Tell her that, I guess.”

Sure enough, minutes later, the Greenmantles barged in, Hal lumbering in after them.

“This is your last chance,” Piper said. “I’m not going to ask you again. I want this necklace, this _exact_ necklace- and I want it to be deadly. Do we really need a repeat of yesterday’s theatrics?” Hal stepped forward threateningly.

Ronan raised his lip in a snarl and considered his response. Each one ended with Adam probably getting the shit kicked out of him again.

So rather than answer, he merely scowled and snatched the red pill from her clawed hand.

Cabeswater was considerably calmer than the last time he’d been there, as though it had resigned itself to Ronan’s grim situation. The skies were dark and grey but the lake he stood in front of was placid, the trees still and undisturbed. Fog rolled in. He shivered.

He visualized the necklace, holding it carefully in his mind’s eye. It was like trying to force dry clay into shape; he felt clumsy and uncoordinated. He glanced around, and the dull glint of tarnished gold caught his eyes amongst the reeds. This necklace was no better than the first one. He realized its mistakes right away: The diamonds were cloudy and grey, the rubies dull and color-less.

He hurled the necklace into the lake and sat, heavily, along its edge.

 _Come on_ , he thought. He held his hands out, imagining the look, the texture, the weight of the necklace. And then, it was in his hands.

It looked… better, at least. More regal than the previous iteration. And it seemed to hum in his hands, indicating it possessed _some_ sort of dream magic. There was only one way to find out.

He placed the necklace around his neck and hooked the clasp into place. For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, he became aware that the necklace was uncomfortably heavy. Reflexively, he reached up to adjust it, but the movement only made the necklace tighten… and tighten… and…

He woke, choking. His body was paralyzed, his hands at his sides, but he convulsed reflexively as the necklace around his neck squeezed the life out of him.

“Get it off him, get it off him!” Greenmantle shouted as foreign hands clawed at Ronan’s throat.

The necklace came undone and air rushed into Ronan’s greedy lungs. Still, he remained paralyzed, the throbbing in his throat echoing in time to the pounding of his heart.

When he did open his eyes, minutes later, the Greenmantles were inspecting the necklace closely. Colin Greenmantle had a circular magnifying glass he was holding to the jewels.

“What I fail to understand,” he said, eying Ronan suspiciously, “Is why you are unable to produce actual rubies. Over the years, we’ve come in contact with several dreamed items that were inlaid with precious jewels, so I can only conclude you are purposely dreaming fakes.”

Ronan grasped at his neck where he lay on the carpet, too weak to sit up.

“They aren’t mine,” he rasped.

“Speak up,” Greenmantle demanded.

“The other objects,” Ronan said, his voice scratchy and hoarse. It hurt to speak. “Aren’t mine. My dad’s.”

There was a stunned silence, during which the Greenmantles exchanged complicated looks.

Ronan clarified, “Took him a lifetime to get that good. To have that much control.”

After a long beat, Piper smiled thinly, though it looked forced: “Well. Guess it’s a good thing we have all the time in the world, then, isn’t it?”

With another long look at this wife, Greenmantle stepped forward and handed Ronan a white pill (thankfully split in half) that the teen wearily choked down.

Greenmantle turned his attention to Adam.

“Your turn,” he said.

If Ronan didn’t know Adam as well as he now did, he would have missed the way Adam’s spine straightened, the way his jaw twitched as he clenched it.

While Piper continued to inspect the dream necklace closely and Ronan’s heart began to race again as the speed took effect, Greenmantle pulled out a small, wooden music box and handed it to Adam.

The psychic opened it. A faint, improbable tune played, seemingly inside Ronan’s head (though logically he knew the music had to be coming from the box itself).

“I want to find its twin,” Greenmantle said. “The power of the box is inert without its sister, according to my dealer. We know an identical box was last seen in La Paz, Mexico. I would like to know if the other box still exists, and where to find it.”

Adam nodded curtly, his eyes never leaving the box.

“Excellent. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

*

Ronan had wondered how Adam’s abilities could possibly be useful to someone like Greenmantle.

“Energy detection,” Adam replied, when Ronan asked how Adam planned to find the other box. “In theory, the other music box should feel the same as this one. So I’ll just look for a similar energy pattern.”

“In _Mexico_?” Ronan asked.

Adam cocked his head, eyes distant. “Time and space don’t matter nearly as much as energy. And I already know exactly what I’m looking for.”

Ronan remembered Adam had mentioned Ronan’s energy, the first time he'd dreamed for Greenmantle. “What does my energy feel like?”

Surprisingly, Adam huffed a laugh, though Ronan didn’t know what was so funny.

“Your energy…” Adam shook his head and closed his eyes. “Your energy is... extraordinary.” His blue eyes met Ronan’s. “I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

The statement was weirdly intimate, and Ronan hoisted himself onto the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Whatever, man. Hey, they gonna feed us lunch?”

“I guess not. There’s crackers,” Adam said, waving vaguely to the food stash beneath the bed, but Ronan wasn’t really hungry.

From beneath his forearm, Ronan watched Adam set the tarot cards out on the carpet in front of him, face-down. His hand hovered, and then he slowly flipped one, two, three cards, seemingly at random. He peered at them, brow furrowed. Ronan wondered what on earth the cards were telling the psychic, if not the future, but he didn’t want to interrupt.

Adam picked up the box, then, and looked into the bowl of water, his eyes wide and unfocused. His lips moved, ever so slightly, like he was murmuring to himself.

Ronan barely breathed, transfixed. He’d almost forgotten how strange, how otherworldly, how effortlessly captivating the other teen could be. Adam’s hand tightened, once, around the music box, but he was otherwise stock-still. Minutes dragged by, and still, Adam did not move.

Then- it was nearly imperceptible, and Ronan would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking directly at him- Adam slumped forward, his jaw slackening.

Ronan sat up, frowning.

“Parrish?” He asked. The psychic was entirely unresponsive. Was this normal?

The box tumbled from Adam’s slack fingers, and Ronan was suddenly seized by the certainty that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Adam!” Ronan shouted, vaulting off the bed and grabbing the collar of the other boy’s sweatshirt, shaking him roughly. Adam’s eyes were open and glassy, and his skin was taking on a waxy, bluish hue. 

“Snap out of it!” Ronan demanded. He grabbed the bowl and dumped it wholesale onto Adam’s face, giving the psychic another frantic shake. “Adam! ADAM!”

Suddenly, Adam was coughing, wiping his eyes, gasping for breath. He pitched foreword- Ronan caught him. 

Wild-eyed and shaking with minute convulsions, Adam's eyes darted around the small room, taking in the now-overturned bowl, the soggy tarot cards before him. Ronan realized he was still holding Adam’s shoulders and slowly started to let go.

Wordlessly, Adam grasped at Ronan’s shirt, pressing his face to Ronan’s chest and pulling Ronan in tightly, as though to confirm the presence of a heartbeat.

“Uh- okay,” Ronan said, nonplussed. Then as Adam continued to shake, he raised a hand to the psychic's back and said, lower, “You’re all right. You’re all right, I’ve got you.”

It was something his mother had said many times to the Lynch brothers throughout Ronan’s childhood, and for a moment Ronan could have been twelve years old again, hearing these words after being bucked from a horse he shouldn’t have been riding in the first place. It felt surreal to be the one saying them, rather than hearing them. 

Adam mumbled something into Ronan’s chest. 

“What?”

“Is this-“ Adam’s voice wavered, broke off. “Am I here?”

Ronan wasn’t sure what to make of the question. “Yeah, man. You’re here.” 

Adam pulled away abruptly and looked at Ronan in confusion. 

“Ronan?” 

“You expecting someone else?” 

“No, I-” Adam’s neck flushed bright red and he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry. Wow. Sorry.”

Ronan really didn’t have time for Adam’s embarrassment, not when he’d just seen… what, exactly, Ronan wasn’t sure. “What the hell, Parrish.”

Adam pressed his bruised eyes with his fingers, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “How long was I…”

“A few minutes. Everything was normal, I guess. Then you just kind of…” he wasn’t sure how to describe it.

“I got lost. I couldn’t find my way back.” 

“Back to what?”

“My body.” Adam took a deep, shaky breath that caught in his throat. Then another. He was still shivering violently, so Ronan turned to pull the duvet off the bed and draped it over Adam’s shoulders. The psychic, staring into the middle distance, didn’t seem to notice.

“I followed a ley line,” Adam whispered.

Ronan perked up. He knew all about ley lines; it was practically a prerequisite for being friends with Gansey.

Adam continued, “I could feel the other box. I knew I was on the right path. I’ve done this before, it wasn’t anything new. But there was…” he trailed off.

“There was what?” Ronan prodded.

Adam turned his gaze on Ronan, and Ronan saw that the expression in the other boy’s eyes was utter shock. “There was someone else there. On the ley line.”

Goosebumps prickled on Ronan’s arms. “Who?”

“A woman,” Adam said. “I couldn’t see her, but I… sensed her, I guess. She knew my name. ‘Are you Adam Parrish?’ And I said, yes, I was. And then she asked whether the Dreamer was with me.”

Ronan looked up, sharply. Adam quickly continued, “I didn’t answer. And then she said another name. She said... Do you know a Dean Allen?”

Ronan shook his head.

“Me neither.” Adam lapsed into silence for a long moment before continuing. “She said, ‘We’ve been looking for you. Where are you?’ And I realized- I couldn’t remember.” Adam shuddered. “I couldn’t remember where my body was.

“She was- angry? Afraid. It was hard to tell. She said, ‘You need an anchor, Adam.’ By then I was running, looking for a way back. I heard this other voice calling me. Your voice, I guess. I thought I was dead.”

“Maybe you are. Welcome to Hell.”

“That make you the devil?”

“I’m a fucking angel.” Ronan said it flippantly, but he was badly shaken, both by Adam’s story and by the certainty that the psychic had, for a very short while, certainly seemed dead.

The corner of Adam’s mouth lifted, weakly, though his eyes still were haunted. “Anyway, that’s how I made it back. I followed your voice.”

*

Adam took a shower and emerged half an hour later, looking considerably more alive than he had earlier. He and Ronan briefly discussed the existence of the woman on the ley line.   
  
"I want to try again," Adam said. At Ronan's horrified expression, he quickly added, "Not tonight. Just, she _knew_ me. Maybe she can help us."

"Or, maybe you'll end up dead for real," Ronan snapped, and that was the end of the discussion. 

Adam eventually settled himself on the right side of the bed with a book, and Ronan was wondering if it would be weird for them to share the bed, or if he should maybe offer to sleep on the floor tonight, when Hal barged in with cold McDonalds and a sleeping pill that he forced down Ronan’s throat before leaving, deadbolt slamming home loudly.

Ronan left the food where it was- this seesaw of drugs were starting to kill his appetite- and started towards the throw rug in front of the fireplace.

“You can have the other side,” Adam said, waving to the empty space next to him. Well, that was settled, at least.

Ronan made his way to the bed and slumped on top of it. Already, he could feel the drug starting to take effect, making his limbs heavy and unwieldy. Next to him, Adam leaned back against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him, reading serenely from _Rare Psychic Arts._

Blearily, Ronan stared openly at the intense concentration on the other teen’s face, following the delicate curvature of the lips, the dark bruising around the eyes. He noticed that Adam’s fine, reddish-brown hair was long enough that it curled under his right ear and Ronan was struck with the inexplicable urge to run his fingers through it.

“Parrish. Hey. Parrish.”

Adam lowered his book. “Yes?”

“You need a haircut.”

“My barber’s out of town.”

Ronan, uninhibited, reached out to touch Adam’s hair, fingers brushing the long ends.

“Get a trimmer. I’ll do it for you.”

Adam _tsked_ in annoyance and pushed Ronan’s hand away. He eyed Ronan’s nearly-shaved head, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, I’ll pass.”

Ronan, loose and loopy from the sleeping pill, smiled sharply. He was in a silly mood. Like he wanted to be a pest. 

“Aw, come on…” Ronan needled, reaching his hand out again. Adam caught Ronan’s wrist, expression torn between exasperation and… something else. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t not-smiling, either.

“Go to sleep, sleepyhead,” Adam said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Ronan shot back, and he might have been imagining the huff of laughter that followed his proclamation but he didn’t think so as he followed Adam's order, slipping effortlessly into a dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on tumblr @ [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Does this qualify as a 'oh my god they were roommates' fic if they were forced to be roommates at gun-point? Something to think about. 
> 
> Comments appreciated, even from you lurkers. Stay safe + healthy out there, ya'll.


	4. four

The Gray Man had killed nineteen people in his lifetime, and not since his fourth kill (in which a bystander had gotten caught in the crossfire) had he lost any sleep over his chosen career path.

Perhaps, he sometimes mused, he was destined for the life of a hit man (not that he really believed in destiny). But there weren’t many people who could do his job, from a psychological standpoint. It was really only possible for him because he was never burdened by emotion.

The first time he laid eyes on the Parrish boy, however, he remembered that this had not always been the case.

In early June, Greenmantle had asked the Gray Man to meet him at his historic, oversized townhouse in Boston. The Gray Man had been vaguely annoyed (was there any reason this meeting couldn’t be a phone call, instead?) but Greenmantle always paid well and so the Gray Man had agreed.

A teenaged boy had been sitting at the dining room table when the Gray Man arrived, a deck of tarot cards spread out before him.

“Meet Adam Parrish, our resident psychic. He just arrived yesterday,” Greenmantle had announced, as though he were showing off a prize pony and not an underfed teenager. He’d clapped his hand to the psychic’s shoulder, and the boy had stiffened in distrust, his expression stony and unblinking.

Greenmantle had continued, smiling gleefully: “Young Mister Parrish here is going to help us locate the Greywarren."

Every time the Gray Man thought of Adam Parrish, this first meeting was what he remembered. The boy had been sitting, straight-backed and poised, his posture oddly regal for someone dressed in a dirty t-shirt and ripped jeans. There were finger-shaped bruises on his arms that he'd tried to hide beneath the table, his lip had been split and his jaw had been green and yellow with mottled bruising. He’d worn these injuries, not with pride, as others his age might have done, but with a resigned, quiet air that implored people to simply Look Away.

The boy’s eyes had flicked to the Gray Man’s, his expression unnervingly aloof and emotionless to the untrained eye.

But the Gray Man had lived with fear for the first half of his life; knew its suffocating, all-consuming embrace more intimately than a lover’s (not that he’d had many of those), and so it was fear he’d seen when he’d caught the psychic’s eye.

The Gray Man had then remembered his own childhood, and the careful, meticulous care he himself had taken to cover injuries far worse than this boy’s. Every cut, bruise and burn had stripped the Gray Man of his ability to feel hurt, anger, happiness. It was, after all, why he was so good at his job.

But as he’d looked at Adam Parrish and the bruises the boy tried in vain to hide, the Gray Man wondered how things might have been different, if someone had shown an interest in his own life, long ago. If someone had looked beyond the veneer of normalcy the Grey Man wore like armor. If someone had, perhaps, offered to help.

The Gray Man did not regret his life path, but his was a solitary existence. It was not a life he would necessarily wish on others.

 _The boy is nothing like you,_ came a stern voice inside his mind. _Don’t get involved._

The Gray Man listened to that voice. For a time. He completed jobs for Greenmantle and went on missions to help track down the Greywarren, occasionally glimpsing his employer’s psychic around the house but never taking the time to speak to the boy. Never bothering to learn more than his name.

*

The Gray Man was usually very good at sticking to a decision once it had been made, so he surprised himself when he found himself approaching the psychic at one of Greenmantle’s ridiculous parties.

The boy was seated at a small table in the parlor, looking very uncomfortable in a dark collared shirt. He was just another one of the party’s many attractions, albeit one that had caused quite a bit of buzz amongst Boston’s underground elite _(Greenmantle’s got himself a psychic, he can tell you exactly what’s in your purse, he can tell you precisely what your husband is saying on the other side of the room, isn’t that delightful, what a neat trick, do it again, psychic, this time with your eyes closed!)._

It was late in the night, and so the novelty had worn off a bit, and the chair opposite the psychic was empty. The Gray Man considered the teenager before him. Debated whether he should turn and walk away. He sat.

“Pick a card,” the boy said, deep-set eyes watchful. The Gray Man flipped a card at random. The King of Swords looked up at him.

“That’s your card.”

“What does it mean?”

The psychic cleared his throat a little, then listed off: “You’re rational, impartial, and reasonable.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “You’ve just made an emotional decision, though. That’s rare for you.”

“Do you know what that decision was?”

“No. You do, though.” The Gray Man wondered if this was just a lucky guess on the kid’s part.

“How did you learn to read cards?”

“Read it in a book.”

The Gray Man raised his eyebrows. The Parrish boy lifted a shoulder, as if to say, _doubt all you want, it’s the truth._

A knot of partygoers erupted into sudden, raucous laughter nearby, and the psychic’s shoulders shot upwards, his eyes darting across the room.

“Don’t like crowds?” The Gray Man guessed.

“I don’t like drunk people,” the boy muttered, the corners of his mouth turned downwards in distaste.

The Gray Man examined his card. The King of Swords.

“In Great Britain, kings would routinely hire magical advisors,” the Gray Man said. “Sad to say, one of the most famous examples, King Arthur and Merlin, was likely the invention of a 12th century historian.”

For a moment, the psychic stared at him, unblinking, and the Gray Man thought, disparagingly: _He is nothing like I was at that age._  
  
“Yes,” the Parrish boy said, eventually. “Geoffrey of Monmouth invented the character of Merlin in _The History of the Kings of Britain_.”

“You’ve heard of it?”

The ghost of a smile crossed the boy’s face. “I’ve read it.”

The Gray Man was almost never surprised- in fact, he put a _great_ deal of effort into ensuring that there were few things that happened in his life that he had not planned for- but the fact was that Adam Parrish had surprised him.

 _Oh, he’s exactly like you at that age, _the voice in his head whispered.

Hours passed. The party raged around them, getting louder and more irritating the more people drank, but Parrish seemed to barely notice, so engrossed was he in discussing--and debating--medieval history with the Gray Man. After Greenmantle finally gave the teenager permission to retire to his room, the Gray Man mentally compiled a list of titles he thought might interest the boy.

The next day, he asked (a very hungover) Greenmantle about the psychic.

“Does he have parents?” the Gray Man asked.

Greenmantle waved his hand dismissively. “They’ve been compensated. So long as the checks keep clearing, I’m pretty sure his father will let me hold onto the kid indefinitely. It’s laughable how little they asked for, but that’s rednecks for you. Why do you care?”

The Gray Man shrugged. “He should be in school.”

He was not particularly concerned with the ethical dilemma of kidnapping a teenager (he did, after all, make a living by killing people), but the Gray Man was undeniably irked by the fact that Adam Parrish being trapped in the Greenmantle house meant Adam Parrish was not in school. The boy was studious, whip-smart, and clever; a brain like that would atrophy in a place like this.

So he brought Parrish books, and articles, and taught him as much Latin as he knew. He comforted himself in the knowledge that Adam Parrish was not truly a captive; the boy moved about the house freely, at least. But then again, Adam Parrish had never tried to leave the house without Greenmantle’s permission.

After Parrish made his ill-fated bid for freedom, the Gray Man could no longer ignore the reality of the boy’s situation. He continued to bring books (and food, after he heard Greenmantle make an off-hand comment that he kept forgetting to feed the boy), and he did his best to ignore the locked door, the shock collar, the desperation that the psychic now wore like a shroud.

When Piper Greenmantle asked the Gray Man to rough the psychic up, shortly after Parrish tried to run, the Gray Man blandly refused.

That caused some tension between himself and the Greenmantles.

“I don’t hurt kids,” the Gray Man said, later that evening, seated across from Colin Greenmantle in his office.

“Since when do _you_ have a moral code?” Greenmantle demanded. “You’re a hit man, for crying out loud!”

“Does this mean you no longer wish to employ me?” the Gray Man asked. He’d received another job offer, recently. Mob-related hit. Pay would be decent.

“No,” Greenmantle said curtly, and then he held up his phone, pulled up his recent call log, and slid it across the table.

Looking back, the Gray Man should have known defying Greenmantle would spell trouble. Looking back, the Gray Man should have known better than to work with Greenmantle in the first place.  
  
“I recently came in contact with someone _very_ interesting,” Greenmantle said, but the Gray Man’s heart had already stopped beating, and distantly, he acknowledged the telltale signs of shock: clammy skin, weak knees, a complete and utter disassociation from the world around him.

The number on Greenmantle’s phone was a south Boston number the Gray Man knew intimately. It belonged to his older brother. For the first time in a long time, the Gray Man felt an emotion he thought he’d managed to rid himself of.

Fear.

Greenmantle’s expression was gleefully triumphant. Checkmate.

Greenmantle assured him that, so long as he continued to do his job, there would be no reason for Greenmantle to give the Gray Man’s brother any information about his whereabouts. So the Gray Man had no choice but to take Greenmantle at his word.

One evening, after the Gray Man unloaded a briefcase full of snacks and a copy of a book he’d written (Parrish had been duly impressed that the Gray Man was a published author), he was turning to leave Parrish’s room when the boy said, nervously: “Could I ask you something?”

His Virginia accent had slipped through. The Gray Man paused, hand on the door knob.

“Do you think... could you…” Parrish seemed unable to word his request. He glanced uncertainly at the Gray Man’s face, then down at the shock collar wrapped around his ankle.

“You wish to leave here,” the Gray Man guessed.

“Yeah.”

“I am being very well compensated to ensure that does not happen.”

Parrish seemed to wilt before his eyes. “I know,” he said, voice low. “I mean- I figured.”

The Gray Man thought the Parrish boy deserved a more accurate picture of the truth, so he said, after a moment, “If I were to help you leave, Colin Greenmantle would make things very… difficult for me.”

“What if he didn’t know you helped me? Maybe you could-”

“He would know,” the Gray Man cut him off. “It would be the only logical conclusion he could draw, if you disappeared.”

The corners of the boy’s mouth turned downwards as he swallowed, hard, blinking rapidly. After a moment, he got himself under control enough to say, “I understand.”

The Gray Man waited to see if Parrish would meet his eye, but the boy continued to stare at his ankle.

So the Gray Man turned and left, locking the door behind him.

*

When the Gray Man first laid eyes on Ronan Lynch in the Greenmantle’s display room, he deduced almost immediately that the boy was an amalgamation of Niall’s worst qualities: impulsive, disrespectful, arrogant. Absolutely no tact or sense of self-preservation whatsoever. The Gray Man wondered, distantly, if these qualities would get the middle Lynch son killed, as they had his father.

The Gray Man did not have the same qualms about roughing the Lynch boy up as he did Parrish. The Dreamer looked like he would welcome a fight, actually. But the Gray Man had already set a precedent by refusing to torture Parrish, so he figured he should probably stick to it.

On the day of the obnoxious Lynch boy’s arrival, after the Gray Man had forced a pill down his throat, Parrish offered to help fix the broken lock on his bedroom door. As they worked, Parrish kept shooting Lynch furtive, anxious glances.

Finally, Parrish said, quietly, “Please don’t tell him.”

The Gray Man wasn’t sure, exactly, which secret Parrish was asking him to keep, though he had some ideas. “About-?”

“If you're talking about me, I’m literally right here,” the Dreamer barked, effectively cutting off any further communication from Parrish. The Gray Man resolved to bring it up at a later date, ideally out of earshot of Niall Lynch’s irritating son.

Overall, he didn’t care for the idea of leaving Parrish locked up with the Lynch boy. It was like leaving him trapped in a room with a caged tiger. Piper Greenmantle had shot down his suggestion that the boys be placed in separate rooms, however, so Mr. Gray merely resolved to keep an eye on the situation.

His concerns proved to be warranted the next time he stopped by Parrish’s room, to see if the boy had any thoughts on the book of poetry the Gray Man had brought on his previous visit.

Adam Parrish’s face was a mess of bruises, and his movements were slow and stilted, indicating damage to his torso or back. The Gray Man felt a rush of emotion he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. It took him a moment to identify it.

Anger.

The Gray Man’s eyes darted to the prone form of the Lynch boy, passed out on the burgundy duvet in a drugged sleep. A cursory inspection showed that the Dreamer’s knuckles were whole and uninjured, which meant someone else had done this to Parrish’s face.

That meathead junkie Greenmantle kept around (Howard or Hank or something) was the likely culprit, then. The Gray Man wondered if he should have a chat with the man sometime soon.

No, the Gray Man amended, as reason quickly prevailed. A chat with Hank (or Howard or Hal or whatever) wouldn’t be a good idea. Already, Piper Greenmantle didn’t like how deferential the Gray Man was with the Parrish boy, and beating up a member of their security team to avenge him would not be a good look for the Gray Man.

Still. He wouldn’t mind crossing paths with the other man in the near future, and he very much hoped the dimwit gave the Gray Man adequate reason to break a finger. Or five.

For his part, Parrish seemed to have reverted to the most aloof version of himself. He and the Gray Man politely discussed Old English poetry, and the Gray Man switched to speaking Latin for a few minutes, to see how the boy was progressing with the vocab list he’d put together some weeks earlier.

Parrish asked for an extra toothbrush and some clothing for the Dreamer, and the Gray Man only agreed to procure these items because it seemed so important to the boy.

He could sense there was something bothering the teenager, though, something darting around in that studious brain of his, and sure enough, there came a time when the conversation petered out and Parrish said, carefully:

“You said, before, you couldn’t do anything because Greenmantle would know you helped me.” Parrish glanced at Lynch, to ensure he was still deeply asleep.

In a flash of understanding, the Gray Man thought he knew where this was going.

It would be easier to quietly remove Parrish from the house if there was a scapegoat, someone else to take the blame. And who better than the Greywarren, someone who could dream any object he desired? The Dreamer would deny that he helped Parrish escape, of course, but he had not exactly made himself trustworthy in the Greenmantles’ eyes. And besides, so long as they still had the Dreamer at their disposal- that was the real prize, here.

“You are correct,” the Gray Man said.

Parrish said, “I want you to get Ronan out. I’ll take the blame. Greenmantle will never know you helped.”

The Gray Man stared. “Why?”

“You know why.”

Actually the Gray Man didn’t. It took him a moment to parse out the reasoning, before he realized: this was not a logical decision on the psychic’s part. This was an emotional one.

“You feel guilty.” It wasn’t an emotion the Gray Man understood, both because he himself had never felt it and because the types of people who hired a hit man tended to not be the types of people who would waste their time feeling guilty about things.

Parrish brought a hand to his eyes, pressing his eyelids with his thumb and middle finger. He looked up at the Gray Man blearily. In that moment, he looked impossibly old.

“Guilt is a useless emotion,” the Gray Man warned him. “I would advise you not to allow it to be the basis for any decision.”

“But it’s my fault he’s here.” Parrish’s voice was tortured.

“Does he know that?”

“No.”

Then, frankly, the Gray Man didn’t see what the problem was, or why Parrish would intentionally place himself in harm’s way for a stranger, but he tried to see things from Parrish’s point of view. It was clear the boy needed a different perspective; a perspective the Gray Man felt he was uniquely qualified to provide.

“You are a tool in the hands of your employer, Adam. Do you understand that? If there is any blame to be had, it falls on Greenmantle, not you.”

Parrish remained visibly unconvinced, so the Gray Man tried a different tactic: “What about school? You do wish to go to university, correct?”

“I’ll get my GED.”

“You can’t take the test from here.”

“I don’t turn 18 for another year. If I got out now, I’d just end up going back to the same situation that landed me here in the first place.”

He was talking about his parents. His father, more specifically.

“So there’s no point in me leaving now,” Parrish continued, expression growing earnest, as though he were convincing himself as much as he was convincing the Gray Man. “By next year, I’ll have figured my own way out of here. Maybe I’ll make a deal with Greenmantle, keep working for him while I’m in college.”

The Gray Man thought that was a rather grim prospect.

“The Dreamer could make a similar arrangement with Greenmantle.” If he ever stopped biting the hand that fed him.

“No. Ronan can’t. I mean, he really, really can’t. This is killing him, and it’s only been two days. He won’t last months. Definitely not a year.”

The Gray Man considered this. Parrish’s reasoning was sound enough, he supposed, and if the psychic took responsibility for Lynch’s escape- well, that accounted for the Gray Man’s own problem of maintaining plausible deniability with Greenmantle.

“Greenmantle will hurt you, badly, if he thinks you helped the Dreamer escape.”

“I’m aware of the consequences.” Parrish’s voice was suddenly chilly, and his jaw was set.

The boy was going to be very annoyingly stubborn about this, the Gray Man realized.

After a long beat, Parrish’s brow creased. “Don’t you… I thought, you might want to help me, if you could,” he said. When the Gray Man did not dispute this, Parrish added, “So this is how you can help me. This is what I want.”

“I don’t understand,” the Gray Man said, finally. “You led Greenmantle directly to the Greywarren. You cannot have expected this to play out in any other way.”

When Greenmantle had first contacted the Gray Man, months prior, the existence of the Graywarren had been fantastical, improbable, and highly debatable: _something that could pull objects from your dreams_. At the time, the Gray Man wondered if Niall Lynch, braggart that he was, had simply made the item up.

The arrival of Parrish and his psychic abilities had proven the Gray Man wrong. It had taken months, but as the boy grew in his abilities and applied them, he had, slowly but surely, led Greenmantle on the path to finding the Greywarren.

When Parrish spoke, his voice was tortured, his expression bleak.

“Greenmantle said once I’d found the Greywarren, he’d let me go. When I figured out the Greywarren was a person, not a device… I told him Ronan was the Greywarren. I thought Greenmantle would abandon the whole thing and I could go home. I didn’t think he’d _kidnap_ Ronan.”

That had been a young, naïve thing to think. But, then again, Adam Parrish _was_ young. The Gray Man kept forgetting this fact.

“You should have known he wouldn’t care that Lynch was the Greywarren. The only thing important to Greenmantle is his collection.”

“I know that now. At the time…” Adam trailed off. “You can’t tell Ronan. I don’t want him to know. He’ll hate me.”

Parrish was probably right. Lynch did not seem capable of complexity, and the situation with Parrish was nothing if not complex.

“What happened to your face?”

Parrish blinked at the abrupt change in topic. “Hal. Greenmantle’s orders.”

The Gray Man waited for more details.

“It was to get Ronan to dream. He wouldn’t, otherwise.”

“Did it work?”

“He dreamt the necklace they wanted.”

Interesting. That would explain why Piper wanted the two boys trapped in this room together, to use one against the other. The Gray Man was surprised that Ronan Lynch, apparently, cared enough about Parrish to do Greenmantle’s bidding. Perhaps the Gray Man had been too harsh in his initial estimation of the Lynch boy.

“Will you do it? Will you get Ronan out?” Parrish was watching him carefully, waiting for an answer. “It would mean a lot to me. For what that’s worth.”

“You’re sure the Dreamer would go with me willingly?” There was certainly no love lost between the Gray Man and Ronan Lynch.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Even if he knew you were not coming?”

Parrish’s mouth flattened to a thin line. “I’d… take care of that. He’d go with you.”

“I will think about it.”

Parrish exhaled, slowly. “Thank you.”

As the Gray Man exited the house, it occurred to him that he had incorrectly estimated Adam Parrish, too.

The kid was _nothing_ like the Gray Man at that age. He was better.

*

After the Gray Man left the Greenmantle house, he considered Adam Parrish’s request. They could make the most of a less-than-ideal situation. Perhaps, after the Gray Man got Lynch out, the Gray Man would take a more active role in the psychic’s education. The Gray Man was, after all, a college professor. There was no reason that another year of captivity would impair Parrish’s ability to learn.

 _And what about his spirit?_ The voice in the Gray Man’s head whispered, so quiet and faint the Gray Man could have easily ignored it. _What about his soundness of mind, his resilience? Could_ that _survive another year in captivity?_

The Gray Man wasn’t sure.

The next evening, when he stopped by Parrish’s room, Lynch was passed out cold again, and Adam was propped up on the bed next to him, reading from one of the psychic books Greenmantle had procured.

Neither mentioned their conversation from the day before. The Gray Man opened his briefcase and removed the items Adam had requested for the Dreamer: socks, underwear, t-shirts, a toothbrush.

As the Gray Man turned to leave, Adam Parrish slid to the edge of the bed.

“Dean Allen?” Parrish asked, his tone uncertain.

The Gray Man paused. He waited, waited, waited, weighing possible scenarios that could have led to the Parrish boy knowing his given name.

“No one has called me that in a long time,” he said, finally.

Surprise flitted across the Parrish boy’s expression. Good. So, likely, the name had come to him by psychic, rather than practical, means.

Adam Parrish said, “I have a message for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on tumblr @ [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided the theme song for this fic is Hozier's "Arsonist's Lullaby". In case you were wondering.

“Get up, get up!”

Groggy and disoriented, Ronan squinted into the harsh overhead light as someone yanked back the covers.

“Wha--?” he mumbled. The sleeping pills beckoned him back to sleep; he had to force his eyes open.

“Rise and shine,” Greenmantle said, his voice loud and discordant in Ronan’s ears. “I’ve got an auction to attend today. I want you to dream something I haven’t seen before. Something I can sell.”

Still uncomprehending, Ronan took in the sight of Greenmantle (dressed in a crisp green button-up and slacks) and Hal (sporting his signature sleeveless plaid shirt) at the foot of the bed. In any other context, they’d make for a hilarious sitcom duo. What the hell time was it? Beside him, Adam sat up, rubbing at his eyes.

“You want—what do you want?” Ronan asked dumbly.

Clearly assuming Ronan was being slow on purpose, Hal pulled a pocketknife from his jacket pocket and snicked it open. He lumbered forward, dragged Adam bodily off the bed and yanked the teenager’s head back, holding the knife to his throat. Adam’s chest heaved as looked at Ronan with widened eyes. 

“You don’t need to do that,” Ronan snapped, his thoughts sharpening through the haze of the sleeping pills. “I’m, just--tell me what you want. Like, more jewelry?”

Colin sighed impatiently. “I’ve already _seen_ you dream jewelry. I want something _new_ , Dreamer.”

“Okay,” Ronan said, automatically accepting the red pill Greenmantle held in his outstretched hand. “Okay.”

 _Something new, something new, something new._ He had no idea what to dream. Maybe Cabeswater would help him.

Fifteen minutes later, Ronan woke holding a large red balloon made of gossamer glass that gently floated from his fingers.

“Not sure what I’m supposed to do with that,” Greenmantle said, when Ronan opened his eyes, minutes later. “Let’s try again.”

Greenmantle forced Ronan to dream nonstop for the next several hours. In the spirit of keeping Adam’s throat intact, Ronan did his best to bring back antique items that might interest Greenmantle (a metal dog sculpture that whistled a jaunty Irish jig, a crystal tea set that glowed in the dark), but the majority of the objects were unremarkable (a bike horn that made no noise, a smoking lampshade that smelled like burnt toast); the result of frustrated dreams from a reluctant dreamer.

In between dreams, Greenmantle peppered Ronan with questions: Was Dreaming a transferrable skill? Could other members of Ronan’s family dream as well? Was there a scientific explanation for Ronan’s abilities?

Ronan had no idea what laws of energy governed his dreaming (he privately thought Adam would be better suited to answering those sort of questions) but he made it very clear that he and his father were the only Dreamers in the Lynch family. He prayed Greenmantle believed him; he couldn’t live with himself if Greenmantle kidnapped Matthew. He wouldn’t even wish this experience on Declan.

Eventually, after Ronan brought back nothing but a tube sock, Greenmantle seemed to accept the explanation that Ronan’s ‘dream energy’ was running dry. Greenmantle gathered up Ronan’s more exciting dreamed objects, Hal fed Ronan a crushed white pill, and together they finally left the teens in peace.

After the door had locked behind the two men, Ronan fell face-first into his pillow, drained. Adam crawled onto the bed and collapsed on his back beside him.

“Not my favorite way to start the day,” Adam muttered.

Ronan turned to rest his cheek on the pillow and eyed the thin, crimson lines where Hal’s knife had broken skin on Adam’s neck. Guilt prickled.

“It’s fine,” Adam said, as though reading Ronan’s thoughts.

“No,” Ronan said sharply, because it wasn’t.

Ronan was exhausted but with the amphetamines now coursing through his system, sleep would be impossible. They lay like that for a long time, Adam watching the dream balloon where it floated above them on the ceiling, Ronan watching Adam.

Finally, Ronan said, quietly, “Tell me how we’re getting out of here, Parrish. Because I cannot keep doing this shit anymore.”

Adam’s lips pressed together with indecision. Finally, he said, “Mr. Gray.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah. I talked to him last night.”

“You said he wouldn’t help. That Greenmantle had something on him.”

“He changed his mind.”

There was something Adam wasn’t telling him, Ronan was sure of it, but he couldn’t guess what it could possibly be.

“When?”

“Not today. He has to make arrangements. But. Soon.”

Ronan felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. There was a light at the end of this hell, and, suddenly, he was hungry for the first time in days.

“That’s good news, Parrish,” he said bluntly, eyes narrowed.

Adam looked over, startled, at Ronan’s incredulous tone.

Ronan continued, “So why do you look like someone pissed on your history homework? You don’t think Gray will follow through?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Adam furrowed his brow, choosing his words carefully. “I think… You’re going to get out. Just you. At first.”

Ronan frowned. “That’s bullshit. Unless you saw the future in your fucking cards or something?”

“I’m not that kind of psychic,” Adam said, his voice a little weary. “It’s just… a feeling I have.”

Ronan’s bark of laughter was derisive. He shifted onto his back and slammed his head onto the pillow, anger flaring.

“Oh, a _feeling_. Well in that case, you might as well throw the fucking towel in. You really think I’d leave you with these psychopaths? Is that what you think of me?”

A look of distress crossed Adam’s face as he shifted to his side to look at Ronan directly. “Ronan, stop--” 

“Just what kind of asshole do you think I am? Jesus. Fuck you, Parrish.”

“Ronan, seriously.” Adam extended his hand placatingly, as though he intended to touch Ronan, and the thought both thrilled and terrified the teen.

“Ignore me. I’m a chronic pessimist,” Adam said, tone apologetic. When Ronan didn’t argue further, he laid his cheek back on the pillow, his expression strangely wistful.

Ronan turned his head to look back at Adam, the anger leaking away as abruptly as it had arrived.

Adam’s tone was self-deprecating. “I always expect the worst. At least, that’s what Blue says.”

“Blue?” Ronan asked.

“She goes to my school,” Adam said, and his expression turned fond at the memory of whoever this girl was. “She’s amazing. You two would really get along.”

Ronan felt like he’d been doused in cold water.

Adam continued, amused, “Or maybe not. Now that I think about it, you two are pretty similar. I’m not sure who I’d bet on in a fight.”

Ronan turned away from Adam and threw his forearm carelessly across his eyes.

“Whatever, Parrish,” he said, cutting Adam off. “My fucking point is, we’re _both_ getting out of here _,_ so stop saying stupid shit.” 

There was a long pause. “Okay,” Adam said, eventually, and his voice was distant again. “I’ll stop saying stupid shit.”

The mattress shifted as Adam sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, leaving the space besides Ronan cold and empty in his absence. 

*

Ronan eventually showered and changed into the cheap gym clothes Gray had procured for him. He had to admit, wearing clean clothes made him feel almost human again.

He and Adam ate their lunch of cold, greasy fast food in silence and then Adam claimed the corner in front of the fireplace for his witchy set-up (bowl of water, tarot cards, a sprig of some smelly plant he’d unearthed from the bedside drawer) while Ronan listlessly paged through _Lord of the Flies_.

“Hey, Ronan,” Adam said.

Ronan looked up, eager for a distraction.

“Want me to read your cards?”

Ronan narrowed his eyes.

“Come on,” Adam cajoled. “You’ve been staring at the same page for 15 minutes.”

Ronan was wary of the tarot cards—he was pretty sure fortune telling was a cardinal sin—but on the other hand, Adam had told Ronan repeatedly that he couldn’t see the future, so maybe what Adam did was all right?

Plus, Ronan had to admit—he was curious to know how the cards actually worked.

Ronan jumped from the bed and crash-landed across from Adam on the throw rug. Rows of tarot cards were laid out face-down in front of them.

Ronan flipped one at random. _The Magician._

“Ah. Of course.”

“What?” Ronan demanded, inspecting the card more closely.

“It represents the ability to create. To manifest something from nothing.”

Ronan snorted. No need for a psychic interpretation there. “All right, Parrish,” he said. “Your turn.”

Adam’s brow knitted in confusion. “My turn?”

“Yeah, pick a card, I’ll interpret it for you.”

“It’s not gonna mean anything to you-“

“Just pick a fucking card.”

Adam rolled his eyes but hovered his hand over the deck for a moment before selecting one and turning it over. It was _The Hanged Man_ , upside down. Adam’s face fell a little.

Ronan snatched the card. “Yeah, so Parrish, bad news. Looks like you’re gonna kill a man. Just remember I’ve always been nice to you.”

“That’s not what that card means.” Adam’s tone was indignant, but there was the hint of a smile on his lips and Ronan had never been one to back down from a challenge.

“Who’s the fortune teller here?"

“Not you, that’s for sure-"

“Pick another.”

Adam carefully selected a second card, his ears reddening when he saw which card it was: _The Lovers._

Ronan snatched the card from him. “Parrish, you freak. I had no idea about your love affair with your geometry textbook. All those integers really turn you on.”

“Integers are algebra,” Adam said, but he grinned, and Ronan felt a thrill of victory. Adam flipped a third card: _Death._

Ronan found himself at a loss for how to make light of that particular card.

“It’s not bad,” Adam said pragmatically, after a moment. “The Death card represents new beginnings.”

“The only new beginning I want to see is the beginning of Greenmantle’s hospital stay once I put my fist through his face,” Ronan said sourly.

Adam pressed his lips together and began to gather the cards, shuffling them with long, practiced fingers.

“Speaking of,” Adam said, haltingly. “I do need to find that music box for him.”

Ronan scowled. “Bad fucking idea.”

Adam sighed. “Well, it’s like that woman said: I need an anchor. So my consciousness can find a way back to my body.” He hesitated. “I was thinking you could anchor me.”

The ability to separate one’s consciousness from one’s body was still an utterly baffling concept to Ronan, but then again, he could pull flying scorpions from his nightmares so wasn’t sure if he was in a position to judge. 

“What would I have to do?”

“I think it would work best if you held my hand,” Adam said, his voice and expression neutral. “Every minute, you squeeze, and I’ll squeeze back. If I don’t, you can bring me back with the cold water. And yell my name, so I can follow your voice.” 

He looked to Ronan, gnawing uncertainly on his bottom lip. Mistaking Ronan’s silence for a lack of interest, he hastily added, “Its fine if you don’t want to.”

“Fine,” Ronan said abruptly. He held out his hand, palm up.

Adam’s features relaxed. “Thanks.” 

Adam picked up the music box with one hand and took hold of Ronan’s outstretched palm with the other. His hand was dry and cool to the touch, and every fiber of Ronan's attention was drawn to the point of physical contact between them.

Holding hands with Adam Parrish was wonderful, and terrible, and wholly unbearable. 

“Good?” Adam asked. 

“Fine,” Ronan grated. “Hurry the fuck up.”

Adam took a deep breath and stared into the pool of water. Ronan squeezed his hand. Adam’s hand tightened, briefly, in response. 

And then, Adam’s eyes went wide and glassy as he slipped into the faraway place where Ronan feared he wouldn’t be able to reach him.

Ronan focused on the watch around Adam’s wrist, squeezing his hand tightly every sixty seconds, holding his breath until he felt Adam squeeze his hand in return. The psychic’s expression was vacant, but Ronan could see his chest rising beneath his thin t-shirt, and his lips twitched minutely, as though in prayer.

After about ten minutes, Ronan squeezed, and Adam’s hand did not tighten in response.

“Parrish,” he demanded sharply, but then Adam blinked several times, squeezing Ronan’s hand as he looked up.

“How was it?” Ronan asked.

“That was… that was really good,” Adam said thoughtfully. “I’ve never had that much control before. The woman was back on the ley line.”

Ronan’s stomach twisted with unease. “Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah. Something was kind of… blocking her, though. You, I think.”

“Me?”

Adam tilted his head, his blue eyes still faraway. “Your energy. It’s like I told you. Your energy is…” the corner of Adam’s mouth turned upwards. “You kind of drown out everything else. I had a hard time hearing her. She said ‘I see Ronan is with you.’" Adam glanced at Ronan, his expression growing worried. "I didn’t know she’d be able to pick up on your energy like that. I’m sorry.” 

The hairs on the back of Ronan’s neck stood up. “Do you trust her?”

Adam lifted a shoulder. “I don’t think she wants to hurt us. Before she vanished, she said, ‘Stay strong, Adam.’ It’s just weird she knows who we are.”

Adam glanced down and, realizing he and Ronan were still grasping hands, hastily let go and put both his hands in his lap. Ronan brought his wrist to his mouth to chew on his leather bracelets.

“You get the lady's name?” he asked, finally.

Adam squinted, trying to remember. “It was Greek… Demeter?”

“Persephone.”

Adam’s attention snapped to Ronan. “Yes. How’d you know that?”

Ronan stood and rifled through the papers on the circular table until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out the computer printouts from a few days earlier and handed them to Adam.

**Controlling the Detachment of the Mind from the Body  
by Persephone Podmore, PhD**

Adam looked up at Ronan. Slowly, he said, “I just started using this method—Persephone’s method--to project. It’s a little different than what I’d been doing before. It must have led me right to her.”

“What does it mean? What does she want?”

Adam looked at the papers in his hand, shaking his head. “I honestly have no idea.”

*

That evening, while Adam was in the shower, Ronan decided to get the electric fireplace going. He poked around a bit until he found the knob, tastefully hidden from view around the side of the stone fixture. As he turned it, a fire leapt cheerily to life with a _whoosh_.

Adam emerged from the bathroom, rubbing at his hair with a towel, and stopped in his tracks.

“What?” Ronan asked, concerned he was about to witness some sort of psychic-related episode.

“Do you have matches?”

“It’s electric. You don’t need matches.”

Adam blinked at Ronan owlishly. Ronan huffed. “Dude, the wood and everything--it’s fake. You turn the flames on here, they’re just for show, but heat should… yeah, it’s coming out these vents.”

“All this time,” Adam said faintly. “I had no idea.”

“How did you survive without me?” Ronan demanded, grabbing all four pillows from the bed and throwing them in front of the fireplace.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure my odds of survival plummeted once you showed up,” Adam said dryly. “Are you building a nest?”

“Something like that. It’s freezing in here. Kill the lights.”

Adam turned off the overhead light, plunging the room into flickering orange darkness. He joined Ronan, who sat cross-legged, duvet draped over his shoulders.

“We need hot chocolate,” Adam said, grabbing a pillow and curling up on his side, his head close to Ronan’s knee.

“I’ll grab some next time I go food shopping.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence, watching the flames dance hypnotically in front of them. Ronan had to forcibly unlock his jaw; the amphetamines had had him tense all day long and he was starting to get headaches.

“I could scry like this,” Adam murmured beside him.

Ronan glanced down. The psychic’s expression was serene, for once, and the fire had turned his hair orange-red in its warm glow. Ronan’s hand twitched where it rested on his right knee. If he moved it a few inches to the right, he could touch Adam’s hair. If he wanted.

“You think we ever would have met in real life?” Adam asked, Virginian accent heavy on the vowels.

Ronan knew what he meant. This room, this situation—this wasn’t real life. This was purgatory.

“No,” Ronan said. Then, “Maybe. Where are you from?”

“Virginia. Little town called Henrietta.”

“No fucking way.”

Adam looked up, startled. “You know it?”

“I go to Aglionby.”

“Oh,” Adam breathed. “I… I got into Aglionby. I’m supposed to be there right now, I’d been saving up…” his voice trailed off, his expression pained.

“Shit, man. Yeah, I guess we would’ve met, then.”

Adam’s mouth twisted wryly. “I doubt you would’ve ever noticed me.”

“Trust me, Parrish. I’d notice you.” Ronan said, his gaze unflinching as the truth fell blunt and easily from his lips.

Adam stared up at Ronan for a long moment, his neck and ears visibly reddening even in the dim light. 

“Well, I- fine,” Adam said, lamely, and Ronan realized that Adam Parrish was at a loss for words.

Before Ronan could figure out what to with this startling bit of information, the door slammed open behind them.

“Time to take your medicine, Dreamer,” Hal growled, and the moment was broken.

*

The next day, Ronan was shoved rudely awake by Hal and force-fed a white pill. It had become so routine by this point that he didn’t have the energy to fight. Surely the Greenmantles couldn’t keep him hopped up on speed _every day_ though, right? The see-saw of drugs they’d been force-feeding him had Ronan oscillating violently from groggy and dazed to hyper-focused and unbearably alert; his heart, if nothing else, was starting to feel the strain.

The day passed uneventfully, if not frustratingly slow. Over an early dinner, Ronan noticed the psychic’s gaze had become slack and unfocused as he stared at the bright overhead light. Whereas, days before, this might have alarmed him, Ronan now recognized it as Adam scrying. It was oddly thrilling (and still a little creepy) to see the psychic use his abilities.

Adam blinked, his eyes focusing on Ronan. “The Greenmantles are throwing a party tonight,” he said.

“So?”

“Well, who do you think the main attraction’s gonna be?” Adam’s voice was alarmingly flat.

Ronan frowned, realization dawning. “What, they want me to dream for a bunch of rich fucks?” Dreaming for the Greenmantles was bad enough. He didn’t want to think about how uncomfortable it would be to dream in front of a room full of people.

“That’s what Piper wants,” Adam said. “Colin isn’t sure. Your face has been all over the news.”

That had to be Gansey’s doing. Ronan's spirits lifted, marginally.

Adam continued, “He doesn’t want to risk you being recognized. Piper said everyone at the party is a criminal, so it doesn’t matter, and something about how she had a gift for one of the guests… a business rival of theirs, I think.”

“And?” Ronan prompted.

Adam shrugged. “And that’s it. They started arguing about the caterer.”

“At least I can get drunk,” Ronan said flippantly, trying to mask his apprehension.

Adam’s lip lifted in distaste. “Hope you like red wine.”

“What do you usually do for them? Tarot cards?”

Adam lifted a shoulder. “Tarot readings. Play ‘guess what’s in your purse’. Fend off drunken advances from women twice my age.”

Ronan scowled. “That’s fucked.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to my entire summer.” Adam’s tone was bitter, and Ronan felt a surge of anger on the other teen’s behalf. Adam sighed and pressed his fingertips to his eyes. When he continued, he sounded tired. “Just dream whatever they want and they’ll probably let you leave early.”

There was a light knock at the door and the sound of the dead bolt turning, and a moment later, Mr. Gray entered, sporting his signature grey suit. Ronan felt a rush of dislike.

Gray checked the hallway behind him carefully and shut the door before turning his blank stare on Ronan.

“Tonight,” he said, “Colin Greenmantle is throwing a party. I’ve arranged for you to go with me-“

“ _No._ ” Adam suddenly cut Grey off vehemently. “I told you-“

“He’s more of a liability being in the dark.” Grey said, and although he didn’t raise his voice, there was a definitive quality to it that brooked no argument. Adam clenched his jaw.

Gray turned his attention back to Ronan. “The Greenmantles will be showing off Colin’s collection, which means you’ll be asked to dream for his guests on the lower level. You will do so.”

Ronan sensed this was going somewhere important, so he didn’t argue, but he did cross his arms so Gray knew what he thought of the idea.

“After you dream an object, you are sometimes immobile for an extended period, is that correct?”

Ronan glanced at Adam, but Adam was staring resolutely at the table in front of him. Gray was waiting for an answer, so Ronan jutted his head in what could be interpreted as confirmation. 

“Tonight you should remain immobile until all guests have left the basement,” Gray continued. “I have been tasked with returning you here afterwards. Instead, we will exit the house from the southwest exit, which leads to the garage. Colin’s security detail visually inspects all cars before leaving. However, my trunk has a modified space large enough for a body to be hidden. This is where you will hide. At the end of the night, when Colin is most preoccupied with his guests, I will drive you off the property. You will make contact with your family and set up a meeting point that I will choose once we are a safe distance away. 

“Whether you share with others your experience here is your decision. I only ask that you never speak of myself or my involvement in either your imprisonment or your escape. Adam assures me you can be trusted in this regard.”

Ronan felt light-headed. Freedom. This living nightmare had an expiration date. Soon, he’d see Matthew, Gansey, Noah… even the thought of seeing Declan filled Ronan with anticipation rather than dread. Emotion clogged the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. There was a gaping hole in this plan. 

“What about him?” he asked, jutting his head towards Adam, who had not once looked up during the duration of Gray’s speech. Gray also looked to Adam, who resolutely did not return his gaze. 

“I have room for only one person in my trunk’s compartment.” 

“And you decided I should be the one to go?” Ronan was incredulous. That didn’t add up at all.

“It is not the choice I would have made,” Gray agreed, confirming Ronan’s suspicions. 

“I told you,” Ronan told Adam, tone furious. “We’re getting out together. I don’t fucking lie.” 

Adam exhaled sharply and looked at Gray. “He’ll go with you.”

“Like _fuck_ I will.”

“Let me talk to him,” Adam continued, as though Ronan hadn’t spoken.

Mr. Gray abruptly stood, his face remaining utterly blank. A jolt of fear ignited in Ronan’s gut; he knew Mr. Gray was dangerous, probably more dangerous than Hal, and Ronan’s ability to defend himself against the hitman was negligible, as Gray had proven time and time again. But instead of approaching Ronan to strangle the life from him, Gray strode to the door and opened it.

“This is his only opportunity,” Gray said to Adam. “There will not be another one.”

And then he was gone, shutting the door and locking it behind him with a soft _click_.

“What. The fuck. Was that,” Ronan grated out, heart pounding in his ears.

Adam was eyeing Ronan carefully, indecision on his face. “This is the plan, Ronan. You have to go with him.”

“The plan is bullshit if you aren’t going too.”

“Would it matter if I told you this is what I want?”

Ronan was shaking his head. “You do not want to stay here. Do not fucking tell me you want to stay here because I will know you are lying.” 

Adam pressed his lips together in a thin line. “It has to be this way. Persephone said so.”

This threw Ronan completely. “When did—Persephone came up with this idea?”

“Not exactly. The first time I spoke to her, she told me to find Dean Allen—that’s Mr. Gray--and pass along a message. ‘ _Your plan will work, but it will require sacrifice_.’”

“And—what, you’re supposed to be the sacrifice?”

Adam’s mouth twisted wryly. “The Hanged Man. Yes.”

Ronan stood. “Bullshit.”

“There’s no point in me going home, anyway,” Adam said, expression obstinate. His neck flushed red with shame but he barreled forward, unable to keep the Virginia twang from his words as he continued, “The Greenmantles pay my parents off. So even if I do go home, my dad’s just gonna send me right back here.”

Ronan felt sick to his stomach. “I won’t let that happen,” he declared vehemently, and Adam looked at Ronan for a long, long moment. Then, he seemed to come to a decision, and, with great effort, the psychic’s expression shuttered.

Suddenly, Ronan could have been looking at a stranger.

When Adam spoke again, his voice was cool and alien. “Ronan. How do you think Greenmantle found you?” 

The way Adam phrased it _how do you think_ gave Ronan pause. It made him uneasy. Adam made it sound like he knew something Ronan didn’t, and Ronan hated that.

“Does it matter?” Ronan snapped. “I didn’t go prying into how Greenmantle found _you_ _-_ ”

“Maybe you should have. What exactly do you think he's been having me look for the past 3 months?”

Ronan’s mouth was suddenly dry. “You said- he wanted you to find, like, magic antique shit for him.”

Adam’s voice was clinical. “Recently, yes. But before that, there was only ever one thing he wanted me to find.”

“No.” It felt like the floor was shifting beneath Ronan’s feet. It was impossible. Ronan didn’t know why it was impossible, but—

“There was this guy from my school,” Ronan grated out. “He knew about me. He was a dreamer, too. _He_ told Greenmantle-”

“Kavinsky?” 

Ronan stared. “You said you couldn’t read minds.”

“I can’t. Ronan, I know about Kavinsky. I’ve seen him. Up here,” Adam tapped his temple, once. “When I was looking for the Greywarren. When I was looking for _you_.” 

Adam’s tone was so level, so reasonable, so fucking condescending that Ronan wanted to punch something.

“Stop. Lying.”

“I’m not lying, Ronan. Greenmantle brought me here with the sole purpose of finding the Graywarren for him. Which I did.”

Ronan turned violently away to pace, clenching his fists at his side.

“That’s not- if that’s true, why didn’t Greenmantle kidnap K too, huh? He’s a dreamer.” 

Adam laughed, once, but there was no humor in it. “He’s not what we were looking for. When you dream, you create energy. When Kavinsky dreams- he takes it away. He's a ticking time bomb.” Ronan remembered the trees in Cabeswater, and what they had called Kavinsky. _Thief._

Adam’s cocked his head, thoughtful. “I told Piper about his dream pills though. That’s how she knew to buy the drugs from him to make you dream. That was all my idea.”

Ronan felt like there was an ice pick lodged in his chest cavity. 

Adam said, dismissively, “You made yourself an easy target.” He paused, then: “I should have had them kidnap Matthew, too.”

The onset of Ronan's fury was dizzying. “ _Keep Matthew’s name out of your mouth_.”

Names. Suddenly, a piece of the puzzle that was Adam Parrish fell into place. It had been nagging at Ronan since the moment they’d met, but he had forgotten. Now, he remembered: Ronan had never actually introduced himself to Adam. The day Ronan arrived, Adam had never asked for Ronan’s name. He’d already known it.

“Once we’d figured out you were the Greywarren, Piper asked me to find Matthew, too,” Adam continued, his tone dismissive. “Wish I had. Maybe then they could have used him as their punching bag instead of me.” 

The idea of Matthew trapped here with them--bearing the bruises Adam now bore--was so awful to contemplate that for a moment Ronan wanted to puke. Without preamble, he flipped the table, sending Adam’s books and papers scattering.

Rather than backing away in fear or stepping forward to meet the challenge head-on, Adam remained where he was seated, his expression stony and unreadable.

“That’s good, Lynch. Destroy my bedroom. That will make you feel better.”

“ _Fuck you_ , _Parrish_.”

Adam’s eyes cut away dismissively as he stood. “Honestly? Life was good before you showed up. Got my own room, food every day. Better than what I had at home, believe me.” Adam pinned Ronan with disdainful, dead eyes. “So go with Mr. Gray and get the hell out of my life.”

Ronan couldn’t think past the red in his vision, the fury that choked him like a stronghold. He managed to choke out: “When I’m back with my friends and my family and the people who care about me- I hope you fucking rot here, Parrish.”

Adam’s expression remained unchanged. “Good-bye, Ronan.”

The door swung open behind him. Ronan spun, chest heaving.

In the doorway stood Piper Greenmantle, two suits draped over her arms.

She smiled broadly. “I hope you boys are ready to party.”

*

Adam took his suit and disappeared into the bathroom, out of Ronan’s sight, which was good, because Ronan had absolutely nothing to say to the psychic right now. He was reeling from Adam’s betrayal--a raw, gaping wound had opened in his chest--and anger was still crashing over him in waves.

Once Ronan had changed into the black collared shirt and slacks—the suit jacket was too small, and besides, fuck that—Gray arrived and motioned him from from the room.

In the doorway, Ronan glanced towards the bathroom, but Adam did not emerge. He exited and Gray locked the door behind them.

Ronan had nothing to say to Gray, either. The man may be his ticket out of this hell, but Ronan was furious with how this was going down, and he was furious that Gray hadn’t gotten Adam out earlier, and he was furious that Adam had lied to Ronan all this time, because Ronan thought he knew the other teen, but apparently he hadn't known him at all.

Ronan was so distracted by his anger that he didn’t even realize where Gray was leading him until they’d arrived: The eerie glass display room from Ronan’s first day.

Sickly yellow lights beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating each display case individually and throwing the rest of the room into shadow. The air was unnaturally cool, and the muted silence pressed on his eardrums.

The thick carpet absorbed any noise Ronan’s bare feet might have made as Gray led him down a line of glass boxes, each containing a strange or fantastical oddity.

Ronan paused in front of a haunting wooden mask with gaping eyeholes and a grotesque smile. Beneath it, a handwritten label declared: _Chokwe Tribal Mask, DRC, circa 1900; Gives the wearer the ability to read minds._

In the glass display beside the mask was a yellowed chess set, its square label reading: _Human Bone Chess Set, artisan unknown. Winners will be cursed with financial ruin. Previous winners have lost a sum of $3.6 billion._

And beneath a hand-painted nesting doll with a somber face and large, doleful eyes: _Matryoshka Doll, USSR, 1939; Any child who touches it will die within a year, 3 lives claimed._

Ronan’s skin crawled.

They arrived in front of a 7-foot-tall glass box that Ronan had mistaken for an aquarium when he’d run past it on the day he’d had arrived. There were fist-sized holes drilled into the side. Inside lay a bare mattress.

The label affixed to the front read: _Greywarren, b. Nov 1, 2003. Parental origin: Belfast, Ireland. Ability to manifest dreamed objects to reality._

Ronan froze. “No,” he said.

Gray gripped Ronan’s upper arm. “ _No_ ,” Ronan snarled again, struggling. “Fuck no!”

Gray slammed Ronan ruthlessly against the glass wall and leaned in, his forearm pressed across Ronan’s chest.

“Come on, man,” Ronan said, fighting to keep his voice even. “You cannot make me go in there like I’m some kind of zoo animal.”

The hitman considered Ronan with unimpressed grey eyes. “Pull yourself together, Lynch.”

Ronan grimaced as Gray leaned in, his arm pressing at the base of Ronan's throat. The man continued, “You will go into the cage, and you will dream, and that will be the last thing you ever have to do for the Greenmantles because at the end of the night, you will leave here. Understood?”

Ronan glared. Gray slammed Ronan against the glass again.

“Do you understand.”

“Yes,” Ronan choked out through clenched teeth.

Gray released him and pulled open a glass door on the side of the box. When Ronan made no move to enter, he grabbed Ronan by the upper arm again and shoved him inside.

Ronan stumbled and spun around as Gray closed the glass door, turning a silver handle to lock it. Ronan immediately pressed on the glass door, running his fingers along the shiny metal framing, but the glass was sturdy, three inches thick and unyielding, and the framing was solid and impenetrable.

He placed both palms on the glass and leaned there, shoulders sagging as the fight slowly left him.

Gray melded into the darkness, lingering nearby but remaining just outside the circle of lights that illuminated each case.

Around them, the air was cold and sterile, and Ronan felt horribly bare and vulnerable in this glass prison. He wondered if Adam would be brought down here, too, and then pushed any thought of the other teen from his mind.

Ronan just needed to get through the next few hours, and then he’d be free.

He turned and sat heavily on the corner of the mattress and placed his head in his hands. There was nothing left to do but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever written a chapter so sad you wanted to die? ha ha me neither.
> 
> If you’ve seen that show YOU, Joe’s glass prison is what I was envisioning for Ronan’s display case. 
> 
> Come say 'hi' on tumblr I seriously love hearing from you guys no one IRL shares my weirdly specific interests: [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)
> 
> LASTLY, every time you guys comment I get inspired to go write. So thank you to every person who has liked & commented so far, I would have never gotten past Chapter 1 if it weren’t for you <3


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a bit dark, I’ve updated the tags. Nothing too graphic but wanted to give a heads up x

Minutes dragged into an hour. Above Ronan, the ceiling creaked. He caught the faint notes of a violin and a distant bark of laughter. The party, he presumed, had begun. Gray remained just out of sight in the shadowy room, the only sign of his presence the periodic bluish glow of his cell phone screen.

_How you do think Greenmantle found you?_

_I should have had them kidnap Matthew, too._

_Good-bye, Ronan._

Ronan was loath to admit it, but Adam’s betrayal had hurt him, badly. Ronan had begun to think of his fellow captive as—what? An ally? A friend? Someone he’d wanted Gansey and Noah to meet, someone he’d hoped to bring into the fold.

That would never happen, now.

_We’re getting out together. I don’t fucking lie._

Now that he’d had time to think (not like he had anything else to do), this was actually what angered Ronan the most. By going behind Ronan’s back and making up this bullshit rescue plan without him, Adam was turning Ronan into a liar.

Adam’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, dark blue eyes intent, Virginia-soaked words unhurried, clever mind assessing the best possible solution as it worked out the problem of fixing Ronan’s injured hand.

Hands. Adam’s hands, long, elegant fingers touching Ronan’s and _I was thinking you could anchor me._

Ronan’s heart thudded in his chest from the memory. Fuck. He needed to think about something else. Like how he was going to keep his promise to Adam, even if Adam _was_ turning out to be a grade-A asshole.

Suddenly, Ronan’s vitriol was back in full force, but instead of it being directed at Adam, or turned inwards, he directed it at someone who was as close to responsible for this whole shitstorm as Greenmantle. Ronan stood and marched up to the wall of his prison.

“I just think it’s fucked up,” he said, loudly. “That you bring Parrish books and, like, fucking _homework_ , and ignore the fact he’s locked up by people who will kill him the minute they decide he isn’t useful anymore. What good is learning history if he gets brain damage from one too many hits in the head?”

He peered through his cupped hands against the glass and could just make out Gray’s shape a few display cases over. The man hadn’t moved, so Ronan took that as a sign to continue.

“What does Greenmantle have on you? Is it about money? ‘Cause I will dream you a fucking boatload of cash.”

Another silence. Gray said, “It’s not about money.”

“Greenmantle has something on you, then?” Adam had once mentioned that he thought Gray was being blackmailed. “Whatever it is, I want to know: Is that ‘something’ worth Parrish's life? Because that’s what the trade-off is.”

More silence from Gray. Ronan plowed on, “You get that, right? If I disappear, they’ll probably blame him—”

“That is his plan.”

Ronan stared, uncomprehending.

 _And, what—you’re supposed to be the sacrifice?_

_The Hanged Man. Yes._

In a rush, Ronan understood why Adam had been so awful, earlier. It wasn’t that Adam had lied to Ronan, he hadn’t; it was simply that Adam had taken the truth and weaponized it for maximum effect so that Ronan would agree to leave with Gray. So that Ronan would be saved.

“They’ll kill him,” Ronan said bluntly.

“I doubt that. He’s useful to them.”

“Not anymore,” Ronan said, voice shaking as he considered the implications of escaping alone. “Not if he helped the Greywarren get away.” Ronan pressed his palm to the glass, trying to look into Gray’s eyes, but the man’s face was hidden in shadow. “And even if they don’t kill him, the scrying will. What they’ve been asking him to do—he can’t control it. He almost died, the other day. He _would_ have died, if I hadn’t been there. He needs an anchor.”

Gray was impossible to read, but Ronan remembered the first time he’d met the hitman. The expression he’d worn when talking to Adam about their boring poetry book had softened, for just a moment; the hitman was fond of Adam. Maybe even respected the other teen, same as Ronan did. So maybe, just _maybe_ , Gray wouldn’t want Adam to get himself killed.

Ronan was kind of banking on it.

Gray said, finally, “My brother. If I were to help you both, Greenmantle would tell my older brother where I am, and he would find me, and he would kill me, slowly.”

Ronan’s sympathy was severely limited. “That’s not Adam’s fault,” he snapped, banging his fist on the glass. “You’re a fucking hitman. You’re gonna let them beat the shit out of Adam because you can’t stand up to your own brother? I stand up to my brother all the time, it’s not that hard. Fucking pathetic, man.”

Gray stepped forward, into the light. He considered Ronan for a long, tense moment, and Ronan resolutely stared back, hoping he hadn't just royally fucked this up.

“You’re right.”

They were the last words Ronan expected to hear, but he recovered quickly. “No shit I’m right.”

“If we were to bring Adam with us,” Gray began (Ronan stilled, not wanting to say or do anything to change Gray’s mind), “Then we would need to come to an agreement. You won’t like my terms.”

Gray's expression was carefully blank, and Ronan was suddenly reminded of Adam, and how guarded the other teen was with his emotions, too. Christ, Ronan was surrounded by sociopaths.

Ronan relented. “Name them.”

*

Colin Greenmantle arrived in the basement a short time later, dressed in a tailored emerald suit and bursting with energy.

“Tonight’s my big night,” he told Ronan, rubbing his hands conspiratorially.

Ronan stared back stonily from the other side of the glass, glad for the two inches in height he had on the other man.

“Now, may I inform you: Hal is in the ballroom upstairs with the psychic. He has orders to carve the boy up, nice and slow, if you misbehave in any way tonight.”

Bile rose in the back of Ronan’s throat but he didn’t flinch. Behind Greenmantle, Gray shifted, slightly, and it occurred to Ronan that he didn’t like the antique collector very much, either.

Greenmantle continued, “I need your word you’ll be good tonight.”

Ronan’s mood darkened. He wondered if he could ask Gray to off Greenmantle before they left, do them all a favor.

Greenmantle lifted his hand to his ear. “I didn’t hear you, Dreamer.”

Rage simmered in Ronan’s gut, hot and volatile. Just a few more hours, just a few _fucking_ more hours and this would all be behind him. _This isn’t just about you_ , he reminded himself. Ronan needed to keep his cool so none of this blew back on Adam before the end of the night.

“I’ll… be good,” Ronan ground out.

“You’d better be,” Greenmantle said ominously, clearly thinking he sounded impressive rather than like a sixth grade playground bully.

The silhouettes of two figures made their way towards Ronan’s glass prison, eventually revealing themselves to be Piper in a long, emerald dress and a stately elderly woman.

“…and here’s the latest addition to our collection,” Piper said as they reached Ronan’s glass prison.

The older woman’s eyebrows raised as she read the label affixed to the front. She had a large coif of silver hair and a brown fur shawl draped over her shoulders.

She eyed Ronan appraisingly. With a high-class English accent, she said, “He’s the spitting image of Niall Lynch.”

“You knew my dad?” The words shot from Ronan’s mouth before he was conscious of speaking.

The woman turned to Piper, ignoring Ronan completely. “Well, that explains where Niall was getting all his artifacts. Is the skill innate?”

“We believe it’s genetic,” Piper said, and the woman’s eyebrows raised again in understanding.

“Niall was a Greywarren as well? My, my. He did have his secrets. May he rest in peace.” She gestured to Ronan. “How does it work?”

“How’d you know my dad?”

Colin and Piper wore matching expressions of irritation directed at Ronan, but he didn’t care.

“Your father was a scoundrel,” the older woman informed Ronan, though she didn’t seem particularly upset about it. “A real pain in the arse to do business with; well, that’s the Irish for you. I owe many of the more eccentric items in my collection to Niall. Of course, he told us he risked his life to scavenge his artifacts from all over the globe, the liar.”

“Why don’t you show us what you can do, Dreamer?” Colin suggested pointedly. He pressed a red pill through one of the holes in the glass wall.

Ronan had a million more questions for the woman, but he didn’t want to push his luck with the Greenmantles so he took the pill. He waited for Colin to tell him what to dream.

“Why don’t you dream that necklace again?” Piper suggested, her voice falsely bright. “I brought rubies so you can create them correctly, this time.”

She pressed an earring through the hole that Ronan took. He turned it over between his fingers, begrudgingly memorizing the weight and feel of it.

“Do you need the photograph?” Colin asked.

Ronan jerked his head ‘no’ and handed the ruby earring back to Piper. The weight of the trio’s calculating attention made his skin feel too tight for his body.

“Don’t forget about the magic,” Piper reminded him, eyes narrowed.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and, with difficulty, dry swallowed the red pill.

Cabeswater was grey and rainy when he arrived. He spotted the necklace almost immediately—now that he’d dreamt it so many times, it wasn’t as difficult to recreate— and he inspected the rubies closely before pocketing it.

Along the tree line, something large and animalistic lurked, just out of sight. Ronan felt dread seep into his bones. He knew what that animal was. Could feel its hunger, its want, its desire to shred Ronan to bits.

A night horror.

Ronan woke before it emerged.

He was, as usual, completely frozen where he lay, slumped over on the mattress at an awkward angle.

“Oh, _impressive_ ,” the older woman breathed, her voice dripping with envy.

The glass door was unlocked and the necklace was plucked from Ronan’s lifeless hand. The footsteps retreated and there was the sound of the door being locked again.

“Is that a replica of Geraldi’s necklace?”

“If an expert were to examine it, they would tell you it _is_ Geraldi’s necklace,” Piper said smugly. “Would you like to try it on?”

“Oh, may I?”

“Of course. Here, let me help you.”

 _No._ Ronan wanted to scream. _Don’t put it on._ His heart thudded in his chest, and he desperately willed himself to move, but it was useless.

“There,” Piper said.

“It’s quite heavy,” the woman remarked. And then: “It’s a bit… tight—“

There was a terrible choking and then the _thump_ of a body hitting the floor.

“You were a fool for coming here tonight,” Colin said coolly.

“You should have known we could not leave you alive,” Piper added disdainfully. “To cross my father is to cross me.”

More feeble choking sounds. Ronan’s pulse thudded in his ears, but he remained paralyzed as he listened to the woman die, mere feet away.

Silence fell. Piper commanded: “Let me know when this is cleaned up and we’ll bring the rest of the guests down.”

“Do you want the body to disappear completely or do you want it to look like an accident?” Gray asked.

“Disappear completely, I think,” Colin said. “No sense getting the police involved.”

When Ronan could finally open his eyes, the Greenmantles had gone upstairs and the woman’s body was being zipped into what looked like a large garment bag by Mr. Gray.

Ronan followed the movement of the zipper as it enclosed over the woman’s black heels.

“Did you know?” He asked Gray, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” Gray answered simply. “That’s why they asked me to be here tonight, and why I’ve been given permission to drive on and off the property.”

“Who is… was… she?”

“Does it matter?” Gray took in Ronan’s stricken expression and relented. “She was a business rival of the Greenmantles. They had a long history.”

Ronan brought a hand to his own throat, remembering the panic he’d felt when the previous iteration of the necklace had choked him. Gray gave him another assessing look.

“Do not blame yourself. You are merely a tool in the hands of your employer.”

“Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?” Ronan shot back.

“Sometimes.”

Ronan blinked at the hitman’s honesty. He wanted to ask the elderly woman’s name, but he didn’t think he could stomach it. Guilt simmered although, logically, he knew he couldn’t be held responsible.

He wondered if this was how Adam had felt, after he’d told Greenmantle what—who—the Graywarren was. Because, God, no matter what Ronan did, it felt like someone was always getting hurt. There weren't any good choices.

Gray fired off a text and lifted the body bag with a grunt. Ronan couldn’t watch as the hitman carried it out of sight. He was wracked with more guilt as he wondered, belatedly, if he should have said a few words over the woman. Would Gray give her any sort of funeral? Probably not.

The sound of footsteps and excited chatter interrupted his maudlin thoughts.

Ronan was filled with a new kind of anticipatory dread as figures emerged from the darkness: young women hanging off the arms of older men who smoked cigars and spoke with thick, eastern European accents. Excited older women chatting in one of the romance languages and wearing dresses with neck-lines so plunging it was indecent. Businessmen carrying glasses of malt whisky and making crude jokes at each other’s expense. One gloved woman clutched a lapdog wearing a diamond-studded collar.

“Isn’t this a handsome specimen,” one man exclaimed, and Ronan shot a lethal glare in his direction. The man stepped back, alarmed, then laughed with the woman standing next to him.

Ronan looked out over the crowd; there had to be fifty people (all dressed to impress), crowded around his prison, peering at him excitedly and sipping leisurely at glasses of wine or whisky or champagne, as though seeing a person trapped in a cage was some sort of wondrous marvel instead of being one of the most severely fucked up things they'd ever witnessed.

Ronan felt horribly exposed. He crossed his arms where he sat at the edge of the mattress and clenched his jaw. He couldn’t get the dead woman’s face from his mind.

Colin Greenmantle tapped on his champagne glass to summon everyone’s attention. Piper stood beside him, arm proudly looped through his.

Colin began, “I’d remind you that you all signed a non-disclosure agreement at the start of the evening, but I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t know you could be discreet.”

“It helps we have dirt on most of you,” Piper added, and her million-watt grin had more than a little bite to it. People laughed, and a few guests raised glasses in the Greenmantles’ direction as if to say _fair play._

Colin continued, “Tonight I’d like to introduce what is, perhaps, the single greatest addition to my collection.” Curious eyes flickered to Ronan. “Many people told me I was chasing a ghost. Some of those naysayers are even in this room, _Daniel_ …”

A man in a turban indignantly called out, “Hey!” and people laughed.

Greenmantle laughed too. “But really,” he continued, “No one thought this item existed. Something that could turn dream into reality! It was a fairytale, I was told. The item was nothing but a dream itself. But I never gave up, never stopped looking. And so, after years of hard work and dedication, I present to you: my dream, finally realized. The Greywarren.”

Murmurs and applause broke out. Ronan gritted his teeth. These people. These _fucking_ people. Ronan had never felt so demeaned in his life. _Adam._ Ronan repeated to himself. _Think of Adam._ Slowly, his fists unfurled. His anger wouldn’t help him, right now.

“Now, I wanted some audience participation for our little demonstration. What would you like to see our Greywarren dream?”

Excited, drunken requests came from all directions.

“A genie in a lamp!”

“A million bucks!”

“A hotter wife!”

Piper handed Ronan a handful of red pills and Colin gleefully chose three people from the drunken audience as though he were an auctioneer. In the end, he had Ronan dream three times. For the woman carrying her dog: a diamond-studded leash to match the lapdog’s collar. For a hunched man with strange, ashy markings that covered his face: an intricately carved replica of his walking stick. For a cocky-looking businessman: a $1,000 bill with the man’s face on it.

As Ronan woke each time, the applause was thunderous, and the minor eccentricities that accompanied each of the items (the $1,000 bill said “THE UNITED STATES OF BULLFUCKERY” across the top, the walking stick sizzled like oil in a pan every time it touched the ground, and the leash was an abnormally long length of fifteen feet) were met with awe and wonder.

Afterwards, Colin announced, “That’s all for tonight, we want to leave you wanting more,” and cries of protest broke out. Colin was insistent, and the overhead lights turned out as the party-goers reluctantly returned to the upper levels, buzzing with the incredible magic they’d just witnessed.

“There you are,” Piper exclaimed. “Bring the Dreamer to his room. Don’t forget the sleeping pill.”

“Understood,” Gray said.

“You missed quite a show,” Colin said excitedly. Then, to someone else (Piper, probably): “Did you see Igor? Oh, he’s _green_ with envy, he’s going to try to buy the Dreamer from us tonight, just you wait, I can’t wait to throw his offer back in his face…”

Piper responded, but her voice faded out as the couple retreated.

After a few minutes, Gray said, “You can wake up now.”

Ronan opened his eyes and sat up. 

“Can you dream without the pills?”

“Yeah, but Piper gave me extra.” Ronan had two remaining red pills in his pocket. He took one out. He glanced at Gray. “Did you know my dad, too? Did the Greenmantles know him?”

Gray’s expression was utterly blank. “Do you want to talk about your father, or do you want to get Mr. Parrish and leave?” He let the question hang in the air.

Ronan scowled but he lay back down on the mattress. He put the red pill to his lips and was thrown, for the fifth and hopefully final time that evening, into a dream.

The last time Ronan had dreamed a night horror, it had been an accident—it always was—and he’d been with Kavinsky. The beast had been improbably perched on the back of one of the leather chairs in Kavinsky’s basement movie theater, and it would have attacked a still-frozen Ronan if Kavinsky hadn’t distracted it by exclaiming, _“Now that’s the kind of shit I’m talking about, Lynch!”_

In the end, Kavinsky had shot the creature with a dreamed pistol he’d had hidden beneath one of the theater seats, and Ronan had survived with only a couple scratches.

Since being kidnapped—since meeting Adam—the night horrors surprisingly hadn’t made an appearance in his dreams. But as he thought about it, now, he realized they had never truly left him. He’d been able to feel them in Cabeswater, each time he’d dreamt for the Greenmantles, lurking on the edges of his consciousness, ready to spring into action. It had never before occurred to Ronan that they might be willing to shred someone else to pieces, if he asked them to. But when Gray had asked him _Can you dream us a distraction—_ this is what Ronan’s mind had turned to.

Behind Ronan, the earth shook as something heavy landed. There was the light rustle of feathered wings. 

He turned. A night horror loomed over him, eight feet tall and terrible to behold: translucent yellow feathers, veiny claws, massive, matted wings, and a yellowed beak that opened sideways in a single, terrible, ear-splitting caw. 

The night horror pinned its hungry red eyes on Ronan. Behind it, another night horror landed heavily, this one jet black and covered in a something that could have been feathers, or maybe it was a tattered cloak, floating around the night horror with a creepy slothfulness that made it look like it was floating underwater. Fear bolted down Ronan’s spine.

Above them, vultures and ravens and crows circled and screamed. They were ravenous, and they thirsted for blood.

Ronan looked at the pair of night horrors, and a rush of steely determination replaced his fear. 

He said, “I need your help.” And then he woke up.

*

Adam Parrish was very good at keeping quiet, regardless of circumstance; it had been a mandatory survival skill for growing up under Robert Parrish’s roof. So as he cowered in the bathroom after his fight with Ronan—knees drawn up, back flush against the tub—he did not make a sound, despite the frantic scream building in his chest and howling in his ears.

_“I hope you fucking rot here, Parrish.”_

_“Good-bye, Ronan.”_

Those would be the last words he and Ronan would ever say to each other.

Adam screwed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his face. It was nearly unbearable to accept that the sharp, magnetic teenager Adam had grown so attached to now hated him. Which had been Adam’s intention, of course. Ronan had grown dangerously loyal to Adam, and that foolish loyalty would have kept the dreamer from his freedom if Adam hadn’t intervened. Adam had done what needed to be done.

That didn’t make it any easier, though.

In the other room, Adam could hear Ronan stomping around, his energy sizzling with intoxicating heat as he savagely pulled on the suit Piper had dropped off. Adam’s own dark suit lay crumpled carelessly on the floor next to him; he couldn’t get his hands to stop shaking enough to change into it.

 _Stop_ , Adam commanded himself. _Separate yourself from the emotion. Place it aside, examine it, seek to understand it._

Outside the bathroom, the door opened, and Adam heard the murmur of Mr. Gray’s even voice and a sharp reply from Ronan. Then the bedroom door shut, and Adam was alone.

He wished he could call Ronan back, just for awhile longer. He’d told Ronan how extraordinary the dreamer’s energy was, but he’d never told Ronan how warm, how comforting, how _alive_ his energy made Adam feel.

Or maybe it was Ronan himself that made Adam feel so alive.

Adam inhaled sharply through his mouth. But his lungs seemed unable to get enough air, and before he knew it, he was gasping, the scream inside his head reaching an unbearable volume as he desperately pressed his palms to his bruised eyes hard enough to hurt.

Still, he made no noise.

He forced his head up and stared blearily into the bright bulb above the bathroom mirror, tears blurring his vision until his focus slackened and he felt his spirit lift outside himself.

He hovered over his body, noting dispassionately how thin, how sickly his battered body looked. This was the benefit of projecting. Emotions were different when Adam was removed from the physical limitations of his body: Further away, less important. It was easier to analyze a situation from this position. A true outside perspective.

Having a physical body could be so wearisome. There had been times—particularly during his solitary imprisonment in the Greenmantle household—that the notion of leaving his body behind for good had been a somewhat attractive one. Even if his body ceased to function—lungs ceasing to breathe, heart ceasing to beat, blood ceasing to circulate—his soul would still live on, unfettered and freewheeling through time and space, right? Probably. Maybe.

Too bad Adam Parrish really, really wanted to live. Sometimes, he didn’t understand why.

Adam's thoughts turned to Ronan.

The first time Adam had met Ronan in person, he’d been wary; even afraid. When Adam scried for Greenmantle, he’d only ever seen the reckless, indifferent side of Ronan as he dreamed with Kavinsky, and Ronan’s physical appearance (icy blue eyes, angular features fixed in a permanent glower, spiky tattoo that must have cost a fortune jutting from beneath the neckline of his shirt) did nothing to assuage Adam’s concerns.

In person, however, Ronan hadn’t been at all what Adam might have expected.

It was the scorpions that had first given Adam pause. Ronan had specifically told his dream creatures not to hurt Adam. Why? He didn’t know Adam, owed the psychic nothing. It had bothered Adam, made him a little suspicious. He hadn't been quite sure how to pay the dreamer back. But as the days passed, it had become apparent to Adam that the other teen wasn’t keeping score. Wasn’t treating their growing alliance as merely a transaction. Adam hadn’t known what to make of that.

Adam had been alone for a very, very long time. Even before Greenmantle. He’d grown accustomed to doing things on his own, relying only on himself, being used again and again for his psychic abilities, as though he was worth nothing more than the sum of his talents.

Now, after meeting Ronan, after discovering what a friend could be—Adam didn’t want to be alone anymore. Waking up next to Ronan, the other boy’s features always so sharp, even in sleep; traveling the ley line but knowing he was safe, anchored by Ronan’s warm hand; staring into open flame and knowing his could scry but wanting, instead, to remain present in his body, close to Ronan’s side; this was a version of life that Adam had never considered he could want. To be close to somebody. To share himself with someone else.

Which brought Adam to his sacrifice. Adam had been given a brief glimpse of what his life could be, but a glimpse was all it would ever be. There was a sort of karmic justice to it, Adam supposed. Adam had been responsible for Ronan’s capture, so it made sense he should have to give up this brief promise of happiness so that he could be responsible for Ronan's freedom, too.

It was the right thing to do. 

When Adam finally returned to his body where it lay in the bathroom, he had stopped hyperventilating and his hands had stilled. He would be all right. Adam Parrish had survived for a long time in this house, and for a long time in another terrible place before that, and so he would endure. He always did.

So why did it still feel like his heart had been ruthlessly removed?

He pressed his palm to his chest, experimentally, but of course there were no injuries there, just a heart that beat too fast and an ache that went further than skin-deep.

It didn’t matter. Adam just had to get through the night, and get through whatever punishment the Greenmantles dished out after their Dreamer disappeared, and then he could put his energy towards forgetting he’d ever laid eyes on Ronan Lynch.

*

Compared to some of the other parties the Greenmantles had thrown, this one was small, intimate. A fire breather impressed cocktail-attired guests on the back patio and a live quartet serenaded them all with classical music from the second floor balcony.

Adam sat in the ‘ballroom’, which had been outfitted with half a dozen couches and tables laden with rich foods and a chocolate fountain. The room wasn’t big enough to be considered a true ballroom, but the vaulted ceilings and enormous draped windows gave the impression that the room was larger than it actually was. After dark, the velvet drapes looked black in the dim lighting and tall candelabras supplemented the primary lighting source: a gas lamp Victorian-era chandelier that creaked above him.

The room felt dated, and creepy, and the low lighting always gave Adam a headache by the end of the night.

He was seated on a short couch in an alcove, scrying bowl and tarot cards laid out on the wooden table in front of him. He recognized several of the guests from previous parties; one particularly irritating midde-aged woman with ruby red talons and a gauzy shawl blew him a kiss from across the room that he did not return.

The hours dragged by, as he waited for either of the Greenmantles to give him permission to return to his room. He was visited by a constant stream of guests who unloosed a mixture of skepticism and banal personal problems at him:

_“Now what is it you say you can do, young man?”_

_“Can your cards tell me whether my uncle has left me anything in the will?”_

_“I want to know whether my lover is trustworthy.”_

Around 10:30, the partygoers disappeared downstairs to the display room and Adam was left under Hal’s watchful eye. He stared anxiously into his scrying bowl, but the sight of Ronan—dwarfed where he lay, sprawled and unconscious in his glass prison—upset Adam so much he found it difficult to maintain the focus he needed to effectively See anything in the water’s dark reflection.

When he glanced up from the bowl, Hal was staring at Adam, a mix of revulsion and confusion on his face at the sight of Adam scrying.

“Freak,” he muttered, and returned to his phone. Adam felt a pang, though he knew the brutal man's opinion of him shouldn't matter.

As the guests returned to the ground floor, chattering excitedly, the quartet packed up their instruments and the fire-breather extinguished his flames, but the party, if anything, only increased in fervor, it’s attendants drunk on wine, drunk on whisky, drunk on the incredible possibilities of dreams made real.

Colin Greenmantle sought Adam out, handing him a glass of water. It was, perhaps, the nicest thing he’d ever done for Adam. Greenmantle was flushed and exuberant; whatever Ronan had dreamt, it had left the antique collector in high spirits.

“I don’t want you leaving just yet,” he told Adam. “Stay and join the fun! We’re going to _celebrate_ tonight,” he said, as though he were doing Adam a huge favor by ordering him to stay.

Greenmantle was whisked away by a gaggle of enthusiastic guests, all eager to hear more about the Greywarren, and Adam sipped at his water, heart-pounding. Any moment, now, Ronan and Mr. Gray would be making their escape. Maybe it was a good thing Greenmantle wanted Adam here. Adam could find a way to hold the Greenmantles’ attention if Ronan and Mr. Gray needed a distraction.

On a couch in the center of the room, a beautiful woman in a slinky black dress nibbled at the neck of the man beside her before swinging a leg over his waist, mounting him as their kisses deepened. Adam cut his eyes away, embarrassed for the couple, but they did not seem to mind the fact that they were in full view of the entire room. Someone wolf-whistled.

More wine was unearthed and consumed and generously offered. Adam pointedly stuck to his water. The volume around him heightened with shouts and boisterous laugher. More guests broke off into romantic couples, hands wandering up dresses and clawing through hair, and Adam watched, reluctantly fascinated, as one man place a small, circular, white pill on a woman’s outstretched tongue before French kissing her. Adam badly wanted to return to his room; this was becoming downright bacchanalian and he wanted no part of it as he shrunk into his alcove.

“My wife tells me you can interpret these cards, here.”

The booming voice belonged to a large, middle-aged man sporting a stylish beard streaked with gray. He carried a glass filled with something amber and expensive-looking. Adam recognized the woman with the red nails beside him from earlier, and from previous parties. Her grin was wide and showed too many teeth.

“Well? Show us what you can do,” the man ordered as he took a heavy seat beside Adam on the couch, the scent of whisky strong on his breath.

Adam slowly and clumsily gathered the deck (he must be more tired than he’d realized) and he laid the cards out, face-down, on the table before them.

“Pick a card,” he said. He wondered if Ronan and Mr. Gray had made it off the property, yet. He wanted to scry, to check, but that would be impossible with these interfering drunks stealing his attention.

The man flipped a card. Leaning over the couch behind Adam, the woman’s hands clawed at the psychic's shoulders as she looked closely at the cards. Her face was uncomfortably close to his, her flowery perfume suffocating him.

Adam gritted his teeth and glanced at her husband, hoping he might intervene, but the man was looking at Adam expectantly.

“Well?” he demanded. “What does my future hold? Plenty of whisky and good company, I hope!”

He and his wife shared the sort of over-exaggerated chuckle of the heavily intoxicated and Adam looked at the card the man had flipped on the table.

The Page of Swords, upside down. This could mean many things, but Adam _knew_ the interpretation the same way he always _knew_ anything when it came to reading Tarot; a tightness in his chest, a burning in his mind as the truth leapt out at him: _Deception._

_This man is lying to you about his intentions._

Adam felt a twinge of unease.

“Well?” the man demanded jovially, still watching Adam closely.

He placed his hand on Adam’s thigh.

Adam reflexively jerked away, but the man held tight as the woman behind him spread her hands around Adam’s shoulders and fiddled with the psychic’s shirt collar, undoing the top button.

Heart thudding in his chest, Adam said, “Let go of me.” Then, more forcefully: “Let. Go.”

He stood abruptly, and stumbled; it was as though his legs could not support his weight. Laughing, the couple guided Adam back to the couch. Adam struggled, but his limbs were turning to jelly, unwilling or unable to respond. Panic clawed its way up the back of his throat.

“Just relax,” the man boomed, his hand once again gripping Adam’s thigh.

“You always leave so early,” the woman pouted behind him, running her bony hands down Adam’s neck and under his shirt, her touch clammy against Adam’s skin. “We asked Colin if you could stay and join in on the fun tonight.”

Adam remembered the glass of water Colin Greenmantle had given him thirty minutes earlier. “He drugged me,” he said, and the words were lazy on his tongue. This couldn’t be happening. “Please, stop.”

“I _love_ it when they beg,” the woman exclaimed with sickening relish, fingernails digging painfully into his chest. The man laughed, draining the rest of his whisky before turning fully to Adam, his eyes predatory.

Out of nowhere and with a deafening screech that split Adam’s eardrums, a large, feathery ball brushed Adam’s temple and crashed into the woman’s head. She gasped and stumbled backwards as a massive, jet-black vulture raked its veiny claws across her face. Its beak darted forward, piercing one of her eyes in a fountain of blood. Her shriek was ear-splitting.

“ _Get the fuck away from him.”_

And there was Ronan, expression savage as he descended on them all, face starkly pale above the black collared shirt and appearing as striking and deadly as the devil itself, straight out of Hell and eager to claim those souls which were his.

He was flanked by two monstrous creatures, one light, one dark, both gargantuan and winged and impossible and terrifying. Above and around him, vultures and crows and other winged animals that had no name descended on the reveling guests, clawing out eyes and shredding suit jackets as pandemonium reigned.

Ronan made a swooping gesture with his arm, and the darker of the two bird-like monsters beside him was on Adam’s male attacker with superhuman speed, horizontal beak closing around the man’s throat with a _crunch_ as they both bodily tumbled over the back of the couch.

On the other side of the room, one of the candelabras tipped over, and a set of velvet drapes went up in flames with a _whoosh._ The screaming around them was deafening as people in various states of undress fled the room.

Ronan turned his incendiary gaze onto Adam, and Adam was filled with paralyzing terror at the incredible power of this otherworldly demon—no, god—who could subjugate monsters and bring about destruction with merely a gesture. 

“Parrish. Come on,” Ronan said, and suddenly he was the biting, irascible teen Adam had grown so familiar with. Adam released a shaky breath.

Ronan held out his hand, brow furrowed. With effort, Adam took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. His knees buckled.

“What the-?” Ronan was immediately beside the psychic, grasping him firmly to his side and wrapping one of Adam’s limp arms over his shoulder.

“They drugged me,” Adam tried to explain, though he wasn’t sure if his words were clear enough to be understood.

Behind them, the red-nailed woman’s shrieks were suddenly cut short, and Adam flinched away from the sight of her and her husband’s bloody carcasses as the paler bird-like creature descended with a flurry of feathers to join its brother.

Mr. Gray emerged from the chaos, eyes scanning the room, seemingly unconcerned with the carnage taking place around them.

“Gray! Stop him! Stop the Dreamer!” Colin Greenmantle had sprinted into the ballroom, expression wild. His brown hair was disheveled and clung to his forehead in sweaty clumps.

“Colin,” Mr. Gray said evenly, as though the pair were running into each other at the grocery store and not in the middle of a hellish bloodbath. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

The hitman gripped Colin Greenmantle by the throat and spun him easily onto the mahogany dessert table, sending elaborate cake displays and turners of liquid chocolate flying.

“You work for me!” Colin yelled, struggling to escape as Gray held him in place.

“Not anymore,” Mr. Gray responded, and he stabbed Greenmantle through the neck with a silver-plated desert knife. “I quit.”

Colin Greenmantle’s expression was frozen in shock as he choked, blood gushing from his mouth. Mr. Gray left the knife where it was embedded in the antique collector’s soft neck tissue and turned his attention to the two teens, gesturing with his head: _it’s time to go._

Another set of drapes had caught fire, and the room was quickly filling with hazy smoke and ash. Ronan coughed and repositioned his grip around Adam’s shoulders. Above their heads, a pair of ravens finished pecking through the metal chain holding the enormous chandelier and it came crashing to the ground behind them, peppering the backs of their legs with bits of glass and metal as Ronan heaved Adam into the entry hall.

Mr. Gray exited the house through the front door and Ronan moved to follow.

The lighter of the two bird-monsters landed heavily in front of the teens, blocking their path. Ronan skidded to a halt as the creature tucked in its ragged wings. It’s horizontal beak and matted feathers were coated crimson; Adam could smell—taste—the sharp tang of copper and his stomach roiled. The monster shuffled forward on clawed feet, towering above them. 

“Stay,” Ronan ordered, and the bird monster paused, cocking its head inquisitively towards its master. Ronan reached out his arm—Adam saw Ronan’s hand was shaking, and realized that Ronan was just as terrified of these monsters as Adam was—and gently patted it’s beak, once. The bird-thing screeched and took flight over them, up to the second floor balcony. 

“Christ, Ronan,” Adam breathed.

The pair of teens stumbled through the front door and into the night. A navy sedan was stationed at the bottom of the front steps; Ronan wrenched open a door and hurriedly helped Adam into the backseat.

The world outside became muffled as Ronan slammed the car door and for a moment, the only sound was Adam’s ragged breathing.

Behind the wheel, Mr. Gray looked intently at the psychic in his rearview mirror. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. 

“Fine,” Adam mumbled, although he felt anything but. 

Ronan threw himself into the backseat beside Adam. “ _Go!”_ he shouted, but the car had already leapt forward, headed down the driveway, and Adam realized Mr. Gray meant to drive directly through the closed, wrought iron gate before them. 

“Seat belts,” Mr. Gray ordered.

Adam raised a clumsy hand, but it was no use. He listed helplessly to the side, his head cracking painfully on the window as the car took a sharp turn.

One of Greenmantle’s security team—the man who had re-captured Adam during his failed escape attempt weeks before—darted from the guard station, gun drawn and face red and contorted with anger. 

Out of the velvet night, the darker bird-monster hurtled towards the man and tackled him to the ground, leaving their way forward clear. 

Adam watched helplessly as the car rocketed towards the gate and tried his best to brace himself. Just as the car smashed through with a resounding crash, Ronan threw his torso on top of Adam’s, pressing him firmly into the seat with his forearms and taking the brunt of the impact as they both flew forward into the front passenger seat.

Adam’s head jolted towards the car window again but Ronan’s hand darted forward at the last millisecond, slamming his palm against the window to cushion the blow before Adam’s skull cracked against hard glass. He cradled Adam’s head to his shoulder as the car continued to spin out crazily, nearly avoiding a head-on collision with a passing Jeep on the main road. Adam squeezed his eyes shut and prayed he wouldn’t puke.

The world righted again as Mr. Gray found the correct lane and then they were off, into the night and hurtling towards uncertainty—and freedom.

*

Ronan buckled Adam’s seatbelt for him and leaned back. Adam immediately missed the closeness of the other teen.

He closed his eyes. Sounds and images from the night battered his inner eye— _‘I hope you rot’ phantom fingernails digging into his collarbone blood spurting from Greenmantle’s throat_ and he forced his eyes open, fighting nausea.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Gray asked, finding Adam’s eyes in the rearview mirror again.

“I dunno,” Adam mumbled. “Hard to move.”

“They drugged him,” Ronan said harshly.

Mr. Gray’s jaw twitched. “Don’t let him fall asleep,” he ordered Ronan. “Until it’s out of his system.”

“All right.”

Adam could feel the other teen’s eyes on him, but he kept his gaze pointed out the window. Now that the immediate danger had passed, he was unsure where exactly he and Ronan stood and was too tired to continue their fight right now.

He wondered how Ronan had convinced Mr. Gray to come back for him.

“I was unable to find Piper. Did either of you see where she went?” Gray asked. Adam jerked his head ‘no’.

“No,” Ronan said. “One of the night horrors will get her.”

Gray nodded to himself, expression grim. “Perhaps.”

Adam’s gut twisted with this ominous sentiment, but it wasn’t like they could do anything about it now.

Adam didn’t ask where they were going. He didn’t care, so long as it was away from the Greenmantles’.

At one point, Adam felt himself staring at the luminous moon, drifting, caught in the foggy no-mans-land between sleep and waking, place and time slipping away.

“Parrish. _Parrish_.”

Adam’s blinked and looked around, confused.

Ronan’s eyes were dark and shadowed but his expression wasn’t as cutting as it usually was.

“You’re scrying?” he asked in a low voice. “I don’t… I mean, is that a good idea?”

Adam hadn’t even been doing it intentionally. Whether it was the drugs in his system or just the desperate desire to escape the horrifying memories of the night, he was dangerously untethered, right now.

“Could you…?” Adam hated how sluggishly the words fell from his lips, how weak his voice was. His hand twitched where it lay on the seat between them.

Understanding dawned on Ronan’s face. Without hesitation he took Adam’s hand firmly in his own, and squeezed.

Adam’s spirit immediately settled more securely inside his bones, thrumming with Ronan's warm energy and reminding Adam that he was alive, alive, alive.

They drove for hours, each staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. Every few minutes, Ronan’s hand would tighten around Adam’s, which served to both keep Adam awake and prevented his consciousness from drifting from his exhausted body without Adam's permission. It occurred to Adam that being his anchor was keeping Ronan awake as well, but Ronan never showed any signs of wanting to sleep and Adam selfishly said nothing.

Slowly, Adam’s motor control returned to him. His stomach had begun to flop uneasily—maybe from car sickness. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Ronan’s grip tightened, briefly. “Stay with me, man.”

Adam squeezed back, to show he understood. The nausea worsened, until Adam couldn’t bear it any longer.

“I’m gonna—pull over,” he said, breathless.

“What’s-”

“Just pull over!” Ronan demanded, and Mr. Gray pulled over onto the shoulder of the road.

Adam ripped open the car door and retched onto the pavement. There wasn’t much in his stomach to dispel. Acid burned the back of his throat.

Ronan’s bare feet came into view on the asphalt in front of him. “Car sick?”

“I guess,” Adam muttered, undoing his seatbelt. His stomach was still roiling.

“It’s likely from whatever party drugs Greenmantle gave him,” Mr. Gray said. He sounded concerned.

Adam dry heaved, too miserable to be embarrassed.

“We should stop for a few hours,” Ronan said. “Like, a hotel, or something. I can dream us money.”

“Money is not the issue.”

“It’s—I’m fine,” Adam panted.

“No, you’re not,” Ronan said, but there wasn’t any heat behind the words. 

Gray and Ronan argued a bit more about the hotel, and Adam didn’t even know what decision they’d made until they were pulling into the lot of a squat motel fifteen minutes later. They sky had turned a faint shade of greyish purple; dawn was approaching.

Gray exited the car and Ronan explained to Adam in a hoarse, low voice, “Gray doesn’t want to travel by day right now anyway. His brother is after him. We can’t go back to Virginia yet. That’s the first place everyone will look. Once word gets out, there will be people, other collectors, who want to find me.” Ronan paused. “I promised Gray we wouldn’t contact anyone until he gives the okay.”

Adam nodded wearily. It wasn’t like he had anyone to call, anyway.

Ronan continued, “I, uh, told him, we’d do exactly what he said. Even if we don’t agree. That’s the only way I could get him to agree to come back for you.” He exhaled, sharply, through his nose. “Basically trading one prison for another.”

Adam wasn't entirely sure if he agreed with that statement, but he didn't trust himself to speak just yet.

Mr. Gray returned carrying two key cards and Ronan helped Adam from the car. Adam was relieved to find he could walk mostly on his own. They reached their motel room and Adam barely made it to the toilet in time before he retched again.

Ronan and Mr. Gray began to talk in hushed whispers in the bedroom, and a few minutes later Adam heard the motel room door shut.

He leaned his forehead against the lid of the toilet, his mind wandering. His skin was crawling with the phantom hands of the red-nailed woman and her vile husband. _They’re dead_ he reminded himself sternly. _You’re not._

Someone touched his elbow and he startled, badly.

“Sorry,” Ronan said. He was squatted next to Adam, holding out a bottle of water.

Adam took a deep drink and Ronan left to give Adam some privacy. Adam turned the shower on and glanced in the mirror to see long, reddish scratch marks running from his chest to his neck. He shuddered and turned the shower temperature up hot enough to scald his skin and steal his focus.

When he emerged, Mr. Gray departed to hide the car somewhere else (“We have to assume my brother will have the license plate number") and Ronan stood to help Adam onto one of the room’s two queen-sized beds. Adam felt like an old man, weak and needy. He wished he had anything else to wear besides the black collared shirt and slacks the Greenmantles had given him. He wanted to burn the clothes.

The room was shabby, with yellowed plaster walls and a box TV that had probably been there since the 90s. Adam sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His stomach had settled, but now anxious adrenaline was coursing through his veins. There would be no sleeping for him, not anytime soon.

“You should sleep,” Adam muttered to Ronan.

Instead, Ronan sat down next to him, one knee folded on the bed, other leg dangling off the edge. He was chewing at the leather bands on his wrist, an anxious habit that Adam found both disagreeable and endearing. Ronan's shirt was untucked and bedraggled, and he'd rolled the sleeves up past his elbows. His blue eyes found Adam's, then darted away. 

The silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

“It was shitty of you to bring Matthew into it,” Ronan said, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “But I know you were trying to help me.”

Guilt and shame rose in Adam’s gut. He didn’t want to have this conversation. “Don’t.” he said, harshly. “Don’t try to… absolve me.”

Ronan barreled ahead, still chewing at his wristbands. “And I wasn’t being careful with my dreaming. Greenmantle would have found me eventually. You were in a shit situation. I get it.”

It was a dream come true to hear Ronan say those words, but Adam didn’t deserve the other boy’s forgiveness. Not after everything Adam’s actions had put him through. Suddenly, the night's events seemed to catch up with him, pressing in on all sides. The image of Ronan, in that glass cage, small and alone, flashed across his mind. Emotion clogged Adam's throat and he couldn’t stop his chin from dimpling as he fought to keep his breathing even. He brought a shaking hand to his face and pressed on his eyes painfully with his thumb and pointer finger. 

“I…” Adam choked out. “I’m… so fucking sorry, Ronan, I…”

He felt the mattress shift beneath him. A gentle hand found Adam’s shoulder, steadying him, and Adam screwed his face up against a tidal wave of emotion. _Control yourself Parrish stop it you’re better than this control yourself **control yourself**_

“Thank you,” Ronan said, his voice low and fiercely sincere. “For looking out for me, Adam.”

Unable to stop himself, Adam gasped a sob, and then another. Ronan wrapped his other arm around the psychic’s shoulders as Adam crumpled, still fighting to restrain the deep, gut-wrenching sobs that clawed their way up from some dark place he’d long kept buried.

“It’s okay,” Ronan said, and Adam began to cry in earnest.

His cries were not controlled, and they were not silent, and yet still Ronan held him, and held him, and held him, cheek resting on Adam’s head as Adam clutched at Ronan’s shirt, Ronan’s steady presence slowly leeching the poison from Adam’s spirit and filling the space left behind with a serenity the teenager had never known before.

Adam eventually quieted, utterly spent, and still neither of them moved, just held onto each other, breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Ronan’s pulse radiated energy and warmth beneath Adam’s skin. Adam had never felt so anchored, so secure as he did in that very moment, surrounded as he was by Ronan’s arms and the powerful, awe-inspiring energy the teen wielded so carelessly, so freely, so openly.

Finally, Adam pulled away, sniffling. Ronan reached behind him and grabbed a box of tissues off the hotel room nightstand. Ronan’s eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them swollen and blotchy, as he brushed away his own tears with the back of his hand and blew his nose. He looked as young and vulnerable and raw as Adam felt.

Adam wiped his face and nose with a handful of tissues, then went to fetch the bathroom trash can so they could dispose of the evidence.

Wordlessly, they both lay down on the bed, then, and Adam hesitantly rested his head on Ronan’s chest, and Ronan carded his fingers through Adam’s hair, and Adam was gently lulled to sleep by the steady, hypnotic beat of Ronan’s heart.

*

In the very early hours of the morning in his 4-bed, 3-bath McMansion in Boston’s suburbs, the Gray Man’s older brother received a series of texts from an unknown number.

The Gray Man’s brother was already awake, and had been for hours (he had never been the type of person who needed much sleep) so he watched the texts with growing interest as they silently popped up on his phone screen.

The first was a photo of his younger brother, Dean, seated behind the wheel of a dark sedan. Behind Dean’s head, the Gray Man’s brother could see two dark figures in the vehicle’s back seat. That was intriguing; the Gray Man’s brother assumed that, due to Dean’s current profession, he would rarely need to transport live passengers. The photo was grainy and had been taken from a distance, likely ripped from security footage of some kind.

The second text was of another grainy security camera image: a close-up of the vehicle’s license plate. The last four digits had been intentionally blurred.

The third text said: _I’d like to make a deal with you. –PG_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longer this quarantine lasts the darker + more emotional this fic gets.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)


	7. seven

When Ronan woke, there was a bulky weight on his chest, and he intrinsically knew he’d just brought back a dream thing. He opened his eyes and almost immediately his heart stopped and his blood pressure plummeted.

Someone was lying on the bed with him, their head resting heavily on his chest, their arm slung casually over his torso. Jesus, Mary and Joseph—he’d dreamt a _person_.

Not just any person: _he’d dreamt a copy of Adam Parrish._

It took a second for logic to pierce the jumbled, sleepy panic, for Ronan to realize he wasn’t paralyzed, which meant he hadn’t brought back a dream after all, and furthermore, he definitely hadn’t just woken from a dream, because he would remember it.

The horrific events of the previous 24 hours flooded back to him. The motel alarm clock read 12:30PM, though the curtains were drawn, casting the room in semi-darkness.

He must have moved, because Adam lifted his head and turned to look at him, expression carefully guarded. His eyes were bloodshot but alert; Ronan wondered how long the other teen had been awake for. 

“I thought I dreamt you,” Ronan admitted.

Adam’s features relaxed a little, and he shifted off Ronan to rest his forearms on the pillow next to him. “ _Could_ you dream a person?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

Adam looked like he could benefit from a couple more hours of sleep. His lips were dry and cracked and tufts of brown hair stood up crazily on one side of his head. The bruising around his nose and eyes from where Hal had punched him several days prior had since become a mottled mix of green and yellow, but new, painful-looking scratches now poked out from beneath his shirt collar.

Still, as his gaze flickered to Ronan’s, there was life behind those deep blue eyes, and Ronan felt a sort of quiet relief. 

The previous evening, Adam—usually so controlled and observant—had been alarmingly frenetic and uncomprehending, and Ronan had been filled with a creeping fear that he and Gray were too late. That the Greenmantles had somehow broken Adam before they’d had a chance to get to him.

The events from the previous evening settled even more heavily in the pit of his stomach, then. Before, Ronan’s fury had overwhelmed every other emotion as he’d stormed the Greenmantle house, located Adam and dragged him, limp as a ragdoll, away from Greenmantle’s drunk, asshole friends. Now, Ronan just felt sick imagining what could have happened to Adam if the night horrors hadn’t intervened when they did.

More than anything, though, the image seared across his mind was the expression of pure terror Adam had borne when he’d first spotted Ronan in the midst of the chaos.

Ronan couldn’t blame him for his fear—Ronan’s nightmares had been quite literally tearing people to shreds around them, and Ronan himself hadn’t known he could summon that many creatures at once, much less control them—but it had nonetheless been jarring to see Adam look at him like that.

It was important that Adam knew he had no reason to be scared of Ronan. That Ronan would never hurt him, regardless of whatever wild, improbable dreams Ronan brought to life. Which was why he’d been so determined to let Adam know he wasn’t angry. He hadn’t meant to make Adam _cry_ though. In the light of day, Ronan felt weird about the whole thing.

Still, it must have been the right thing to do, because now Adam’s expression was calm and assessing and piercing right through Ronan without a hint of fear.

“So if you thought you’d dreamt me,” Adam said slowly, “Does this mean you dream about me often?” His hollow face was still serious, but there was something mischievous about the glint in his eye.

“You wish, Parrish.”

The impulse to smooth down Adam’s ruffled hair was almost too strong to resist. Ronan sat up abruptly, bones aching in protest. He flexed his hand and winced; his knuckles were bruised from where he’d prevented Adam’s head from hitting the car window during their getaway.

He glanced over to the other hotel bed. It was empty.

“Where’s Gray?”

“Making phone calls. I don’t think he slept.”

In the early hours of the morning, after Adam’s breathing had evened out, Gray had returned from hiding the car, pocketing his cheap flip phone. He’d taken in the prone form of Adam where he’d slept, sprawled across Ronan’s chest, and Ronan had glared fiercely at the hitman, daring him to say anything about it.

Gray’s expressionless eyes had merely flicked back to Ronan’s as he’d said, voice low, “I’ve received word from a trusted contact. Word of the Greenmantles’ escaped Dreamer is spreading through the networks. I asked my contact to reach out to your older brother to keep him apprised of the situation. When it’s safe to do so, we’ll set up a meeting place.”

Ronan had been flooded with relief. He’d begun to worry that one of the antique dealers who now hunted him might go after Matthew, like Piper Greenmantle had apparently wanted to, but Declan would make sure their younger brother was safe.

Right before Ronan eventually drifted off, the first light of dawn had been peeking in around the window's curtains and Gray had been perched on the edge of the other bed, staring at the door, his fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of an ominous black handgun that rested on his knee.

Ronan didn’t know anything about Gray’s brother, but if the man had someone as ruthless as Gray this uptight, Ronan figured he should probably be concerned. He couldn’t quite spare the emotional energy for it, though.

“I’m fucking starving,” Ronan said.

“There’s bagels.”

There was. Ronan shuffled to the paper plates laid out next to the TV—Gray must have hit up the breakfast buffet—and was about to offer one to Adam when he realized the other teen was quietly opening the motel room door. Sunlight streamed in as Adam stepped outside and paused.

Ronan followed him, squinting in the daylight. He hadn’t noticed the night before, but their motel really was a run-down shithole. Their current view offered cracked pavement, a few bare trees and a fenced-off pool filled with green algae. He could hear the rumble of traffic on the other side of the long, squat building and above them stretched a wide, cloudless expanse of blue sky.

Adam’s eyes were closed, his face angled upwards towards the weak afternoon sun. A crisp breeze ruffled his hair and the corners of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile. Ronan remembered, suddenly, that Adam had been trapped in the Greenmantle house for _three whole months_ , and was seized with the savage desire to go back in time to kill Colin Greenmantle all over again.

Back in Henrietta, Ronan knew, the maple leaves would be turning orange and red and yellow, blanketing the town in a riot of color that Gansey must be delighted with. Thinking of Gansey made Ronan’s heart twist. It felt like nothing short of betrayal not to tell his best friend what was going on, now that he was free. Ronan wondered if Declan had told Gansey about Ronan’s ability to dream, or if his brother had come up with some convoluted cover story about why Ronan had been kidnapped. Ronan kind of hoped Declan hadn't told Gansey about the dreaming; Gansey deserved to hear it directly from Ronan. 

Not that there was anything Ronan could do about it right now.

Persephone’s ominous message came to mind: _Your plan will work, but it will require sacrifice._

Maybe they all needed to make a sacrifice. Adam had been willing to sacrifice his own freedom for Ronan’s. Gray had sacrificed his job to get them both out (possibly his whole career, since Ronan was pretty sure murdering your previous employer with a dessert knife wouldn’t look good on a resume).

Maybe Ronan was being asked to sacrifice his _fucking sanity_ , because agreeing to follow Gray’s orders not to contact anyone was infuriating. 

“Here,” he said, handing Adam a plate piled with breakfast foods and sitting on the sidewalk curb, ignoring the bits of gravel that dug into the bottoms of his bare feet. Adam wordlessly accepted and sat down next to him.

They chewed in silence for awhile before Adam carefully put his plate down and clasped his hands together between his knees. “Um.” His expression was wooden as he focused on the closed pool in front of them.

Ronan swallowed. “Yes?”

Adam took a fortifying breath. “Aren’t you… angry at me?”

Ronan frowned. Their fight felt like it had taken place a million years ago. “I told you last night, we’re good. Or, shit, I guess it was this morning. Whatever.”

Confusion knitted Adam’s brow and he looked at Ronan. “So that’s… that’s it?”

“Yeah.” Now it was Ronan’s turn to be confused. Ronan had already _told_ Adam he wasn’t pissed anymore, but Adam must not have believed him. Ronan felt a flash of irritation about that.

Then Adam’s face split in a grin.

The transformation was startling. Adam’s eyes crinkled with uncomplicated happiness for the first time since Ronan had met him and Ronan found himself grinning sharply in return, trying to work out what, exactly, he’d done to warrant such an amazing response so that he could keep doing it.

“Look,” Ronan said. “You keep bringing this up, I’m gonna think you _want_ me mad at you. Quit with the martyr act.”

Adam's tone was indignant. “I don’t think I’m a martyr-"

“Yeah you fucking do, let me eat in peace.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Dickwad.”

Without fanfare, Adam snatched the remainder of Ronan’s bagel from Ronan’s plate, took a bite, and put it back. Ronan gaped. Adam stared resolutely in the other direction, face reddening as he tried not to laugh.

“Is _that_ your idea of an apology, Parrish?” Ronan demanded. “Because if so, I have fucking notes.”

Gravel scuffed behind Ronan. Gray was approaching from around the corner of the motel, cell phone in hand. The circles under his eyes were dark enough they looked like bruises.

“You both should be inside,” he said disapprovingly.

Ronan gestured to the empty lot in front of them. “Not like the place is exactly packed.”

Adam was already standing, though, so Ronan begrudgingly entered the motel room, flicking on the light as they entered.

Gray followed them inside, shut the door and said, without preamble: “Piper Greenmantle survived. We can assume she has made contact with my brother. My contact knows of at least two prominent figures in the rare antiques community who have offered high rewards for your capture.”

The last bit was directed at Ronan. Ronan didn’t allow his glare to falter.

“What should we do?” Adam asked.

“My contact is going to spread word we’re headed for Virginia. We’ll continue west.”

“My friend has a helicopter,” Ronan said. “We could be in another state in under an hour. Let me call him-”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Gray’s expression was hardening. “Piper also owns a helicopter, and it’s a lot easier to follow one of those than a car. You promised me-“

“I didn’t say I was gonna go behind your back, I’ll do what you say, I’m just throwing out options.”

“ _No outside contact_. The more people who know where you are, the higher our chance of being discovered.”

“Why don’t you and Parrish go one way and I’ll fuck off and do my own thing, then?” Ronan snapped. “It’s the Dreamer they want, right?”

“No, Ronan.” Adam’s voice was firm.

“Don’t ‘no’ me, I’m just saying, it makes sense to split up.”

Gray’s expression indicated he wouldn’t be opposed to ditching Ronan but Adam looked fiercely resolute. “We’re _not_ gonna just-” Adam started.

The motel room’s phone rang.

None of them moved, and Ronan thought: _Gansey._

It was improbable, but Gansey must have somehow figured out where Ronan was, and he’d be coming, in Helen’s helicopter or the Pig or—

Ronan snatched up the phone receiver. “Hello?” There was a _click_ on the other end, and then dial tone. He slammed the phone back in its cradle.

“Who was it?” Adam asked.

“No one. They hung up.”

Gray’s face had become an expressionless mask. “It was my brother. That was his way of telling me he’s found us. We need to go.”

*

Ronan grabbed a pillow and the remainder of the food before he and Adam exited the room to pile into the backseat of the sedan, once Gray had fetched it from its hiding place. He caught sight of a road sign as they pulled onto the interstate: They were in New York state. He wondered whether Gray had an actual plan here. Their argument had been interrupted, but it was far from over, as Ronan considered what he would propose they do if Gray actually stopped for two minutes to listen to reason.

First, Ronan would call Gansey, of course. Ask Helen to give him and Adam a one-way ride out of here. Henrietta and the Barns were out as destinations, but it wasn’t like money would be an object for Gansey. They could rent a place in the middle of nowhere for a few months, wait it out until it was safe to return home. _If that day ever comes_ , he thought, gut twisting with uncertainty.

“Do people know I’m the Greywarren? The people from the party?” Ronan asked.

“So far, none of the survivors have indicated that they know your name, no.”

That was good, at least. Ronan remembered the dead British woman from the night before, though, and how quickly she’d recognized Ronan. Which reminded him. He still wanted to ask Gray what the man knew about his dad, but he now felt a sense of trepidation around the topic, too. If Gray did know what had happened to Niall Lynch—that was information Ronan wouldn’t be able to un-know. He’d have to carry the weight of it, the same way he carried the weight of those who had been murdered by his dream creations the night before.

It was all tied together in his mind as anxiety and guilt churned in his gut: the old woman, the people from the party, his father—their faces all strangely identical in death—demanding justice. He felt trapped. He couldn’t bear to face any of them. Not right now.

“Do either of you know how to shoot?” Gray’s pointed question drew Ronan’s attention abruptly back to the present.

Adam shook his head _no_ as Ronan said, “Yeah. I grew up on a farm. Mostly shotguns.”

Gray leaned over and pulled open the glove box. He removed a small, stainless steel handgun and passed it back to Ronan, eyes still on the road. Ronan ensured the safety was on and checked for bullets. Fully loaded with six rounds. Gray was watching him closely in the rearview mirror as Adam eyed the weapon distastefully.

“Keep it on you whenever you leave the car,” Gray said.

Ronan didn’t like the idea of carrying around a loaded gun, but Adam clearly wanted nothing to do with the weapon and Ronan saw the logic in at least one of them being armed. “Okay.” He handed the gun back to Gray who returned it to its home in the glove box.

The air was even more tense, now, as Adam stared out the window, expression still twisted in distaste, and Gray white-knuckled the wheel. Gray eventually unearthed an honest-to-god CD from the center console and dated British rock began to play softly over the speakers.

They drove on.

After about an hour, Adam crossed his arms and leaned against the window, yawning.

“You can lay down,” Ronan said, gesturing to the pillow on his lap.

“You don’t want to sleep?”

Ronan shook his head. Sleeping in the motel room had been dangerous enough, and although he was still exhausted, sleeping in the confined space of a moving vehicle would be worse. It was a miracle he hadn’t dreamt the night before; he doubted whether his luck would hold out again.

Adam wrestled with the seatbelt for a bit, loosening it enough so he could lay down fully, his head a comfortable weight on Ronan’s lap. Ronan automatically raised his hand, then paused, his fingertips resting lightly on Adam’s hair. He’d done this the night before, but he wasn’t sure if it was still allowed, and he didn’t know how to ask. He pulled his hand away.

Adam fumbled blindly until his fingers found Ronan’s wrist, pulling Ronan’s hand insistently back down.

“You’re a menace, Parrish,” Ronan grumbled and Adam grinned, eyes still closed.

Slowly, reverently, Ronan carded his fingers through Adam’s hair, savoring the feather-light texture, his knuckles brushing the shell of Adam’s ear.

Time passed. The CD ran through all twelve songs, then began again from track one. Ronan catalogued the shape of Adam’s scalp, the faint scar above his right eyebrow, the precise light brown shade of his hair. Consumed by the singular task of memorizing Adam Parrish, Ronan found he was no longer tired.

Touching Adam’s hair like this felt dangerous. It felt like a dream.

The world outside slowly melted into late afternoon and Adam’s features relaxed into sleep. Gray alternated between forested back roads and quiet two-lane interstates before eventually finding the highway again. They stopped at a drive-through; Gray and Ronan wordlessly agreed not to wake Adam (Adam’s well-being seemed to be the only thing they both were ever in complete agreement on) and Gray ordered enough food for a small feast. They got back on the highway. Ronan carefully ate his meal, trying not to jostle the teen sleeping on his lap.

A strange, jittery sort of restlessness began to fill Ronan. He had a monstrous headache, and at first he figured it was because his sleep schedule was so fucked. Once his hands started shaking, though, he understood. He’d almost forgotten about the cocktail of sleeping pills and amphetamines he’d been force-fed for the past week. He exhaled, loudly.

“What is it?” It was somewhat startling to hear Gray’s voice directed at Ronan after so many hours of silence.

“Withdrawal,” Ronan muttered through gritted teeth. “From the speed.”

Gray dug around in the center console and wordlessly tossed Ronan a small bottle of over-the-counter painkillers.

Some time later, the car drifted too far into the emergency lane and drove over the warning strips there, jarring Ronan from his anxious reverie. Adam woke with a sharp inhale and sat up. Gray quickly redirected the car into the correct lane.

“Mr. Gray,” Adam said, his voice still a little thick with sleep. “I can drive if you want to rest for awhile.”

It hadn’t occurred to Ronan to offer, though he did remember Adam saying Gray hadn’t slept the night before. To Ronan’s surprise, Gray nodded, directing the car onto the next off-ramp and pulling into a gas station.

“Where are we headed?” Adam asked, accepting the car keys from the man.

“West.” Gray said. “Or north. Stay off the highway.”

 _Great_ , Ronan thought sourly, slamming the car door as he exited. So there really _wasn’t_ a plan. They were just blindly running, trying to stay one step ahead of an invisible enemy. He rolled his shoulders and swung his arms, trying to get the blood moving as Gray filled up the gas tank. The hitman’s eyes scanned the station constantly, though the few other patrons ignored the three of them.

“I’ve gotta take a leak,” Ronan announced.

“Be quick. Take the gun.”

Ronan scoffed but dug the weapon out of the glove box. It was compact enough that it slid it easily into the pocket of his dark slacks; he’d never seen a gun this small. He entered the super-sized convenience store next to the gas station with his head ducked low. 

Adam caught up to Ronan just outside the restroom entrance. “Are you seriously gonna walk in there barefoot? Ronan, that’s disgusting.”

“Hal took my boots. I never got them back.”

Adam rolled his eyes and nudged off his own shoes, gripping Ronan’s shoulder for support. Ronan slid his feet into the beat-up sneakers (one was quite literally held together with duct tape) and Adam wandered off towards the snack aisle in his socks.

Afterwards, Ronan trudged back to the car and returned the gun to the glove compartment. He and Gray pointedly ignored one another. Adam rejoined them a few minutes later wearing a new sweatshirt, his arms laden with snacks, soda, a pair of snow boots and a long-sleeved gray shirt that he tossed in Ronan’s direction.

“Figured you were as tired of wearing that as I was,” Adam said, nodding to the sweaty button-down Ronan still wore, courtesy of Piper Greenmantle.

Ronan's new shirt was comfortable but was, to his dismay, emblazoned with an American flag, a bald eagle and an enormous statue of liberty. The snow boots fit weird but they were infinitely better than being barefoot. 

Adam took in Ronan's disgruntled expression. "Ronan, come on, you look great, very redneck chic-"

"I look like a fucking tool, is what I look like," Ronan snapped, and Adam snickered as he started up the car. 

*

Adam, per Gray’s request, stuck to the two-lane interstate, paying careful attention to road signs. Ronan flipped through radio stations listlessly, desperate for anything decent, which was proving to be impossible since it was 4AM in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. He was itching out of his goddamn skin. He drained the soda Adam had gotten for him.

“Pick a station and stick to it, or turn the radio off,” Gray said sharply.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Ronan snapped back. The man had been staring out the window, expression vacant, for hours.

“I’m driving, I’ll pick the station,” Adam said firmly, and so Ronan had to endure shitty oldies music for the next half hour.

Gray eventually dozed off sitting up, head tilted back, mouth slightly agape.

Ronan rubbed his sweaty palms on his knees and scrubbed his hands over his head. His hair had grown longer than he liked it. First thing he’d do when Gray finally lightened up would be to get his hands on a trimmer.

“You’re sure you don’t want to catch some sleep?” Adam asked.

Ronan glanced over and couldn’t help but imagine what Adam might look like behind the wheel of Ronan’s BMW as opposed to the dated Corolla they were currently in. The thought sent Ronan’s imagination into overdrive. 

“No,” Ronan said shortly. “I can’t always control what I dream. No idea what I’d bring back in here. Can’t sleep right now, anyway.”

Adam nodded to the empty soda can. “Because of the caffeine?”  
  
“Withdrawal,” Ronan grated out. “From the amphetamines. Or sleeping pills. Both, I guess.”

Adam winced sympathetically. “There isn’t anything we could have gotten from the store for that?”

“Nah. I helped K detox, once. The school was doing random drug tests. Only thing that really helped was caffeine and painkillers for the headaches.”

“Is ‘K’…?”

“Kavinsky. Yeah.”

Ronan debated whether to continue the conversation—maybe it was water under the bridge—but he also wanted to know how much Adam had seen of Ronan before they’d met. If Adam had seen Ronan with Kavinsky… well, Ronan probably hadn’t been the best version of himself.

“What exactly did you see?” Ronan asked, making sure his voice didn’t sound accusing. “Before we met. I mean, you know who Matthew is.”

Adam took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Well, with Matthew, I never actually saw him. Just heard you talk about him, once, with your… roommate, I think he was?”

“Gansey?”

Adam nodded. “I only ever saw you when you were dreaming, or right afterwards. That’s when your energy is strongest. So, I saw Kavinsky a lot, and…” he grimaced apologetically. “You sleeping in your room. Sorry. I know that’s creepy. I was trying to figure out how you were bringing back your dreams. I thought you were using a device or, like, a _spell_.” He paused. “The first time I saw you dream... that’s when I tried to run.”

“From Greenmantle?”

“Yeah. I was gonna warn you, if I could figure out where you lived. It’s hard for me to see specifics when I scry, it’s really just images. Anyway, I barely made it to the front gate. After that, Piper could tell I was holding out on them. I tried to stall as long as possible, but… they stopped feeding me, and I figured they wouldn’t do anything to you if I told them what I'd figured out. It sounds dumb now, obviously. But at the time… I mean, you have a family and friends, people who would file a missing persons report. My situation was different.”

Adam’s voice was level. Unaffected. Ronan knew better. A week ago, Ronan might have thought the other teen didn’t care at all about the words coming out of his mouth. But now, he noticed the slight way Adam’s eyes narrowed, how his words took on the slightest edge, how his hands whitened, just a touch, on the steering wheel.

“Want to know how Greenmantle found me?” Adam asked.

Ronan jerked his head in a half-nod. “Only if you want to tell me.”

“He took out an ad in the Henrietta Gazette, if you can believe it. ‘ _Seeking objects with mystical affections. Rate to be discussed.’_ He thought someone might turn in the Greywarren. My dad called him up, told Greenmantle I could do ‘freaky shit’ with my mind, and how much would Greenmantle be willing to pay for my services? Next thing I knew, Hal was pulling up in a van to drag me to Boston.” He fell silent for a moment, before he continued, voice quieter. “My dad said it was just for the summer, but I figured out pretty quickly Greenmantle wasn’t gonna let me go until I found the Greywarren. No matter how long it took.”

Adam sighed and shook his head, as though to clear away the memories. “Anyway. No one was missing me. With you, on the other hand-“

“Bullshit. What about your girlfriend? Yellow, or whatever.” Ronan said it as off-handed as he could.

Adam’s brow furrowed. “…Blue? She’s not my girlfriend, she’s probably busy with junior year. Applying to colleges, all that…”

Inexplicably, Ronan’s spirits lifted. “Look, man. When we get back to Virginia, fuck your dad. You should move in with me and Gansey. If you go to Aglionby, we could all carpool together.”

Adam shot Ronan a weird, assessing look. “…Thanks,” he said, finally.

Ronan couldn’t tell if that meant he was accepting Ronan’s offer or just saying it to placate Ronan. He was about to push for clarification when another, more pressing question came to mind.

“How’d you find me to begin with? I know you could follow my energy, but…” He wasn’t sure how to word his question, or even what his exact question _should_ be. He was concerned that however Adam had found him, Piper or Gray’s brother or someone else might be able to track him down the same way.

“Greenmantle brought me a bunch of dream objects. He thought we’d be able to trace the energy back to its source. He was right, it just took us a long time to get there because it all had a really strong energy, but no source…” He glanced to Ronan questioningly. “Your dad’s a dreamer too, right?”

“He was. Yeah.” Ronan didn’t want to talk about his dad. “So you found me through one of his dream objects?”

“Well, your energies are similar enough that I figured out you were connected. Then I saw you dreaming, but I didn't know how you were doing it, until Greenmantle brought me this albino rabbit.” Adam shivered. “It was, uh, kind of terrifying.” He glanced at Ronan, clearly not wanting to offend. “It would eat anything you put in front of it: carrots, batteries, live mice. Greenmantle suspected it was a dream thing, and… yeah, it was yours. That’s when I told him you were the Greywarren. I wasn’t sure, before then. But your energy was identical to the rabbit’s. So.”

Ronan remembered that rabbit; he’d dreamt it alongside Kavinsky when they’d brought back the forest fire. It had been an emaciated, ravenous, feral beast of a creature. Ronan could still remember how its hunger and hatred had reflected his own. He couldn’t name what had changed within him since then, but Ronan wasn’t sure if he could have dreamed that rabbit, now. Not that he'd ever want to.

They fell into silence, then, both lost in their own thoughts.

Some time later, Adam gasped. His eyes were widened in shock as he stared out the front windshield.

Ronan hurriedly followed his gaze, but could discern nothing out-of-the-ordinary about the two-lane interstate stretching before them.

“What?”

Adam’s gaze was torn between amazement and confusion.

“I’ve seen this road. In my mind.”

“Okay…?”

“In a vision.” Adam clarified, craned his neck. “There should be a- a white farmhouse, with a pickup truck-“

“There.”

Adam yanked the wheel to the right, turning onto another road before they passed the house. Maple trees arched overhead, darkened silhouettes in the pre-dawn light.

Adam's thumb tapped the steering wheel. “It’s like I’ve been here before. Keep an eye out for a rock face with red graffiti.”

“Parrish...” Ronan said, unease prickling.

Adam was leaning forward, practically vibrating with excitement. “This morning, before you woke up, I saw all these… images. Kind of like a memory. I thought I was still dreaming.”

“Maybe you’ve been here before.”

“Not possible, the first time I ever left Virginia was when I went to the Greenmantles.”

“Then how-?”

“I don’t know. Ronan, I don’t know. But it was this road. _This exact road_.”

“Where does it lead?”

Adam turned onto a smaller country lane. “There’s this abandoned industrial building in the woods. Maybe an old factory? It’s, uh, brick-“

“Right, okay,” Ronan said. “But _why_ are we supposed to go there?”

Adam pressed his lips together. “Honestly, I’m not sure. But it can’t be a coincidence.”

Adam had to navigate around a fallen branch; it was clear the road they were on was not very well-used. There weren’t any houses that Ronan could see, just trees, and trees, and more trees.

They pulled through into an enormous clearing where, sure enough, a crumbling, two-story brick building stood before them, surrounded by foot-high dead grass. A tree had grown right through the center of the building, branches poking through the collapsed roof like gnarled fingers.

Adam pulled into what must have been a parking lot, once, though it was so choked with weeds it was hard to tell. Adam gazed at the building.

“Parrish,” Ronan said. “Why the fuck are we here?”

Adam’s voice was hushed with wonder. “Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

Adam reached over and grasped Ronan’s wrist, and a shock like electricity shot through Ronan (and not just because it was Adam touching him, either). There was a prickling sensation in the back of Ronan’s mind, a sort of persistant buzz that disappeared the moment Adam let go of him.

“Was that-?”

“Magic,” Adam said, his face breaking into a grin. “We’re right on the ley line.”

“Did it not occur to either of you,” Gray said, his voice sharp and not sleepy in the least. “That this could be a trap?”

Adam’s face fell, his momentary excitement snuffed out like a candle.

Even though Ronan had expressed his own doubts only moments before, in the face of Gray’s biting skepticism, he was solidly on Adam’s side.

“Look,” Ronan snapped, twisting violently around so he was face-to-face with Gray. “We’ve done everything you’ve said, and your oh-so-scary big brother _still_ found us. If Adam saw this in a vision, I think it’s worth-“

At the mention of his brother, Gray bared his teeth; it was the most emotion Ronan had ever seen from the man. “Do you think yourself invincible, Lynch? Because _that_ is the sort of reckless mindset that got your father killed.”

The words twisted in the air between them, oily and coiled and ready to strike. “What,” Ronan said, each word poison in his mouth, “do you know about my dad?” 

“His arrogance made him a target. Colin may have gotten to him first, but there were many others with the same idea. Judging by your behavior, you're eager to follow in his footsteps.”

A strange sort of hollowness overtook Ronan. It was as though he was hearing Gray’s words from underwater, and their meaning took a moment to penetrate.

All those times Ronan had been in the same room as Colin Greenmantle, he’d been staring his father’s killer in the face.

Shock and fury and indecision crashed over Ronan in waves.

He wanted to murder Colin Greenmantle.

Colin Greenmantle was already dead.

Adam moved, slightly.

Adam, who was so much faster than Ronan, who saw and understood so much more and who was always three steps ahead, was looking at Ronan, expression stricken. Then he looked, wide-eyed, at Gray in the rear view mirror.

Adam had heard Gray’s words and grasped the meaning beneath them, but Ronan’s brain was short-circuiting and it was taking him embarrassingly long to catch up.

Ronan remembered something he’d said to Adam when they’d first met: _Why the hell does an antique collector need a hitman?_

“You…” Ronan choked, staring at Gray.

Gray’s expression was almost bored. “Yes. I was the tool Greenmantle used to murder your father.”

For a long moment, Ronan heard nothing but a high-pitched whine.

He launched himself at Gray.

He’d forgotten he was wearing a seatbelt, and he was yanked uselessly backwards. He scrambled to unbuckle himself, still swinging wildly—one of his punches nearly landed, before Gray caught his fist in an iron grip. Adam was yelling, but Ronan didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.

Ronan ripped open his door and bolted out; Gray mirrored him. Ronan launched himself at Gray, landing one punch to his gut, another to the older man’s face. Then, nose bleeding, Gray effortlessly stooped, hooked one arm beneath Ronan’s leg and flipped the teenager, face-first, into the weeds below them.

Gray took a step back to observe what Ronan’s next move would be. Ronan was panting like a wounded animal, his breath coming in fits and starts as he scrambled to his feet.

“ _Ronan_ , _stop_ ,” Adam pleaded helplessly from where he stood a few feet away. His expression was full of fear, though whether he was fearful _of_ Ronan or _for_ Ronan, Ronan couldn’t have said.

Ronan couldn’t deal. The rage that coursed through him was a living, breathing beast of a thing, and it howled for retribution.

“I’ll kill you,” Ronan snarled to Gray, and meant it.

“Greater men than you have tried,” Gray responded.

Ronan walked away. 

His rage propelled him forward, back the way they’d come, and his palms were suddenly scraped and bloody where gravel had bitten into the skin; he must have stumbled and fallen, though he didn’t remember it—

He turned his brain off as the rage morphed into something far more painful and vulnerable. He reached the main road without remembering how he’d gotten there. He picked a direction and continued to walk as his father’s face (beaten and bloodied and accusing) swirled in his vision.

Out of nowhere, a vehicle pulled in front of him, dangerously close. Ronan leaped backwards, thoughts scattering. The passenger side window lowered.

With the exception of his neat blond beard and the gold wedding band, the man in the driver’s seat was the spitting image of Gray, though he was, perhaps, a few years older. The smile he wore—bright and charismatic with a hint of steel beneath—was nothing like anything Gray could have conjured up, though. 

“Ronan!” the man called genially. “It’s good to meet you. I’ve been looking for you.”

Ronan’s hand darted to his pocket, but he’d left Gray’s small handgun in the sedan’s glovebox.

He was on his own.

*

In front of the abandoned factory, the Gray Man allowed Ronan Lynch to get in two punches (they weren’t very good punches, because the boy was letting his fury steal his focus) before he decided he’d had enough and easily laid the teenager out on the ground beneath them.

“ _Ronan_ , _stop_.”

The Gray Man was relieved when Lynch actually listened to Parrish; without the boy’s intervention, the fight would have gone on a lot longer.

Lynch stalked off down the road (where on earth he thought he was going at 6AM on a back road in the middle of Yates County was anyone’s guess) and Adam made a move to follow.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea, right now?” the Gray Man asked him.

The boy's face flashed with what might have been pain. He struggled to rein in his emotions for a moment before he asked, voice shaking with fury, “How much did Colin pay you to kill Ronan’s dad?”

The Gray Man did not blink in the face of the teenager’s rage. “Eighteen thousand dollars.”

Adam stared, derision etched into every premature line of his bruised skin. He looked ready to bolt, though the Gray Man hoped he wouldn’t. One angry teen on the loose was enough.

“How much would someone have to pay you to kill _me_?”

The question left a bad taste in the Gray Man’s mouth. “I would not accept the job, regardless of the amount offered.” 

“Why?” 

The Gray Man struggled to come up with a suitable answer, then settled on the truth. “I have too much respect for you.”

Parrish was silent for a long moment. “So you didn’t respect Ronan’s dad?”

“That’s neither here nor there. I was doing my job.” 

“But he was… good to Ronan, I think. He didn’t deserve to die.”

The Gray Man had never used the word ‘deserve’ when it came to death. No man deserved to die, and every man deserved to die. It was all matter of perspective. But he didn’t think that was the sort of answer Parrish was looking for, so he remained silent.

Parrish scrubbed his face with his hand and sat heavily in the passenger’s seat, feet still on the ground. The Gray Man circled the car, shutting the doors that remained open in the haste with which its occupants had vacated the vehicle.

“He’s not going to want to travel with me anymore,” the Gray Man said, leaning on the car, above the rear wheel well. “It would make the most sense for us to split up. He’s the one with the target on his back.”

If the plan meant he’d never have to lay eyes on the teen who bore Niall Lynch’s face ever again, well, all the better.

Parrish looked up, shocked. “You _killed_ his _dad_. And now you want to strand him in the middle of the forest?”

“No. I’m suggesting we let him call his friends, then go our separate ways.”

“But his friends wouldn’t be able to keep him safe.”

“He’s convinced they could.”

“But you don’t think so.”

The Gray Man shrugged. “He doesn’t care what I think.”

“But I do,” Parrish said. His face twisted in desperation. “Please.”

The Gray Man sighed. Why was he unable to deny Parrish anything, anymore? He glanced at his phone. He had an unread text from his brother.

_I’m so close I can almost taste you._

His brother had been sending these sort of messages nonstop since they’d left the motel, and every time a new one arrived, the Gray Man’s mind had whitened out with panic. Right now was no different.

The Gray Man stared at the text for a beat too long before he remembered where he was. Parrish was waiting anxiously for his response. He swiped the text away from his screen so he could see the time.

The Gray Man said, “We’ll give Lynch 20 minutes to cool down, then pick him up. If he doesn’t want to travel with me anymore, though, I can’t force him.”

Parrish nodded, looking relieved. “Okay.”

They didn’t talk, after that. Parrish was hunched over, both hands entwined around the back of his neck where he sat in the passenger seat, and the Gray Man idly swiped through his phone, though his service kept cutting in and out.

Lynch’s dream necklace dug into his thigh where it rested in his pocket. He had removed it from the deceased woman’s neck before carefully positioning her body in the Greenmantles’ master bathtub (he’d left it there as a fun surprise for them to discover). The Gray Man couldn’t say for sure why he’d taken the necklace, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the Greenmantles with any lethal weapons at their disposal. The sharp points of the chain had grounded him more than once throughout the past 24 hours, and they did so again, now.

The Gray Man checked his emails to see if his contact, Seondeok, had any updates for him. Assuming he survived this whole ordeal, the Gray Man would be deeply in her debt. Somehow, he didn't think she'd have any trouble finding a way for him to repay her. He liked Seondeok; she was one of the few people in his industry who believed in loyalty. She'd been working to find a safe house for him and the teens; he just needed to keep them all on the move until she was able to secure one. His phone service blinked, then disappeared. 

The Gray Man heard the squeal of tires-on-gravel the moment before a beat-up sedan emerged from around the bend in the road. They had company.

“Stay in the car,” the Gray Man ordered Parrish as he pulled his black Beretta 92 FS handgun from his shoulder holster and switched off the safety. Another vehicle—a sleek tan SUV—careened around the bend, kicking up gravel as it straightened out.

Gray rushed to the Corolla's drivers side door, yanked it open, and knelt behind it, gun at the ready as both cars stopped, side-by-side, less than twenty yards away. From this vantage point, he could easily take out both drivers. The Gray Man was an excellent marksman. He lined up his first shot, the shadowed driver of the SUV in his sights.

“Mr. Gray, wait!” Adam shouted.

The Gray Man pulled the trigger.

*

For Gregory Allen, tracking down his younger brother had been easy but time-consuming.

Easy, because Piper Greenmantle had placed a GPS tracking device on Dean’s car weeks prior (clearly, she hadn’t trusted her employee not to do something stupid, or maybe she was just paranoid).

Time-consuming, because while the GPS relayed the relative location of Dean’s vehicle via an app Gregory had downloaded, it was not very precise and there was a thirty-minute lag, which necessitated quite a bit of legwork on Gregory’s part.

Piper was laid up in the hospital (something about a bird attack, Gregory hadn't asked to clarify), but she emailed Gregory every detail she knew about Dean and his two travel companions. Her deal had been simple: she’d help him find Dean if Gregory gave her Ronan Lynch once he'd located them. Piper was very cagy in her reasoning for wanting to track down Lynch, but Gregory didn’t care. Adam Parrish, she said, was all his if he had a use for him. Otherwise she’d take care of the other teen herself.

Gregory didn’t want to get his hands more dirty than necessary; Dean was the hitman in the family, not him. So he figured he would let Piper handle Parrish, or, if for some reason Dean seemed particularly attached to the teenager, he could force Dean to be the one to kill Parrish. Gregory knew a great deal about the physical effects of torture on a person, but he had never really explored forms of purely psychological torture. It could be a fun experiment.

Gregory entered the garage and began to fill the trunk of his BMW with items he’d need once he finally had his brother somewhere remote: a blowtorch, serrated pliers, handcuffs, an electric screwdriver. He threw duct tape in there as well, though he didn’t think he’d need it. Dean wasn’t much of a screamer, anymore. Gregory had trained him well. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone for, so he packed an overnight bag. His ex-wife, Linda, had run off with the children six months prior, so he didn’t need to invent an excuse for his absence, but he did send a quick email to his boss, explaining there had been a death in the family. His boss didn’t need to know the death had not yet occurred.

Gregory began to drive. According to the GPS tracker, Dean was heading west and had a good six-hour head start on Gregory. Around dawn the GPS indicated the car had stopped moving in central New York state; Gregory had wondered if Dean would be foolish enough to stop at a hotel. This was Gregory’s chance to close some of the distance between them.

He didn’t speed (no sense getting a ticket), but he never slowed, either. He had the general location of his brother’s car. All he needed to do was figure out where, exactly, Dean had decided to catch a few hours’ rest. Reason dictated he’d choose a smaller, privately owned motel; the type of place that might not ask for an ID so long as you paid in cash up front. The problem with those places, however, was that they were not as concerned with their patrons’ privacy as a chain hotel would be.

On the sixth motel Gregory called, after describing his brother’s physical appearance, the front desk clerk said, “Yeah, if it’s the guy I’m thinking of, he checked in early this morning. Room 114. Want me to put you through?”

Gregory glanced at his phone. He was about an hour from the motel.

“Yes, please.”

The phone rang, twice, before a rough male voice said, “Hello?”

Gregory hung up. It was a shame it wasn’t Dean who had answered, but he texted the number Piper had given him: _can’t wait to see you, little brother._

Gregory was intentionally dragging this out; it would probably make Piper angry, if she found out, but he couldn’t help it. He would have been disappointed if it had been too easy to catch up to his brother after all these years apart. He had always liked the chase. And he especially liked that it gave him ample time to toy with Dean, who didn’t respond to any of the texts Gregory sent over the next fourteen hours. Judging by the erratic route his brother’s vehicle was taking, however, Gregory knew he had Dean running scared.

Well, Dean could run all he wanted. There was only one way this would end. Piper called Gregory around 2AM the following day; she’d finally been released from the hospital, and she was furious he hadn’t yet reached his brother.

“I’m getting the helicopter ready,” she informed him. “My pilot refuses to fly at night, but at first light, I’m coming directly to you and you’d _better_ have tracked them down by then.”

“Use that tone with me again and I’ll keep Ronan Lynch for myself,” Gregory said mildly. 

Piper scoffed but her tone wasn’t as demanding after that.

Gregory slowly gained ground on his brother until, around 4AM, he finally caught up with the blinking red dot on his phone screen. He was in the right area; he just needed to actually find the dark blue sedan, which proved difficult to do since Dean clearly was avoiding the main highway.

Gregory was driving down a forested side road shortly after sunrise when his reception cut out, suddenly. Damn.

He slowed to a stop in the middle of the road and considered his options. According to the GPS, Dean’s car had been stationary for the past fifteen minutes, though that could be because of the lag in data. Perhaps he’d stopped to catch more sleep, but there weren’t any motels in the area. Or, maybe his brother had grown a brain cell and had finally ditched his car?

In the early morning light, he spotted the lankly form of a teenager sporting a buzz cut and wearing a grossly patriotic shirt on the other side of the road. The young man was walking furiously and was completely unaware of his surroundings.

Gregory Allen felt a thrill of anticipation. He recognized the teen, courtesy of a school photo Piper had emailed him. Gregory's phone reception came back—he quickly sent Piper his exact location, dropping a PIN for her. He had no idea where she would find a place to land her helicopter in the middle of this forest, but that wasn't his problem.

He waited until the teen was almost past him before he cut across the opposing lane and pulled his car abruptly in front of the teen, rolling down his window.

“Ronan!” He shouted genially. “It’s good to meet you. I’ve been looking for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Adam + Ronan themed book covers for this fic! You can view/reblog them from [my tumblr here.](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/post/617400762670137344/chapter-7-of-the-collected-is-about-to-be-posted)
> 
> Re: Ronan and his new look, I took great pleasure in dressing him in the dumbest outfit my quarantine-addled brain could reasonably think of. You’re welcome.
> 
> Finally, a special shout out to anyone who told me this fic was getting them through quarantine because it makes me feel like by writing this I’m doing a public service lololol


	8. eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of suicide, nothing overtly graphic but just a heads up.

Adam sat, defeated, in the passenger seat of Mr. Gray’s car, his feet planted on the cracked asphalt below him. His thoughts chased each other in tense, stressed circles. His anger was a nasty and complicated thing at the best of times, and he needed to get a grip on it before he said something truly detrimental.

The thing was, for a short window of time, Adam had been happy. He was free from the Greenmantles, free from his father. Ronan wasn’t angry with him, and Mr. Gray had ensured Colin Greenmantle, at least, wouldn’t bother them again.

As desperate as Ronan was to return to his home in Henrietta, ‘home’ was not the safe refuge for Adam that it was for Ronan. With Ronan beside him and Mr. Gray guiding them resolutely onward, Adam would have been perfect content to keep driving west until they hit the Pacific.

Now, he wasn’t sure how on earth he was going to convince Ronan to stay. Their best chances of survival were to remain with Mr. Gray; the man knew what sort of threat they were dealing with and had kept them safe so far.

If it came down to it—if Ronan refused to travel with Mr. Gray anymore, and Adam was forced to choose between them—well, Adam wanted to avoid making that choice at all costs, because he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He’d already lost his autonomy, his summer, his place at Aglionby (and therefore the future he’d planned so carefully for). To lose either of the people who cared enough about him to risk their lives to rescue him? Adam wasn’t sure if he could handle another loss like that.

Mr. Gray killed people for a living. This was not news to Adam, and it had never really bothered him before. But the discovery that Ronan’s dad had been among Mr. Gray’s victims left Adam feeling bereft, then betrayed, then angry, all in the space of a few moments.

Adam wasn’t sure if he was being entirely fair. After all, Mr. Gray had only been doing his job, and he’d killed Ronan’s dad before he’d met Ronan. 

The books and articles and homework he'd provided had kept Adam sane in the Greenmantle's house; the food he’d provided had, quite literally, kept Adam alive. Adam had begun to respect Mr. Gray, the way one might respect a beloved teacher or coach. Mr. Gray was self-assured, inscrutable, highly regarded. He was never needlessly cruel. He’d mastered his emotions. He did not suffer fools. Adam thought—hoped—that he might, one day, leave the trailer far behind and become someone like that. Adam had no aspirations to be a hitman (no desire to do anything remotely on the wrong side of the law), but Mr. Gray had checked so many other boxes.

Could Adam reconcile the man he looked up to with the ruthless killer Mr. Gray’s job made him out to be? Adam wasn’t sure.

Whenever Mr. Gray said the words “my brother”, he used the same flat tone Adam used when he said the words “my dad”. It was a tone that was only notable because there was an effort made not to attach any emotional weight to the words. Intrinsically, Adam sensed that Mr. Gray’s brother was similar to Adam’s father, and was therefore quite dangerous because he had infiltrated Mr. Gray’s most valuable asset: his mind.

It had been a shock to realize he had something like this in common with Mr. Gray, but also strangely comforting to know that he was not alone in carrying this sort of shameful secret regarding a family member.

This, more than anything, was what had cemented Adam’s trust in the man. Adam had never—would never—intentionally put himself at odds with his dad. The fact that Mr. Gray had risked his brother’s wrath to help Adam meant more than anything else he'd done for him. Mr. Gray had not mentioned what it could cost him, but Adam knew.

In many ways, Adam understood Mr. Gray better than he understood Ronan.

Adam’s trust in Ronan had become tied into desire in a way that Adam had trouble articulating. He’d felt attraction—affection, even—for others in the past (his friend, Blue Sargent, being the most recent example), but those schoolyard crushes were nothing compared to the magnetic, steadily growing bond he was forming with Ronan Lynch.

Ronan was an intractable forest fire of emotions. He was fiercely loyal, protective, transparent in a way Adam could never be. He was as foreign to Adam as a dead language, but as with Latin, Adam was learning the other teen slowly, tenaciously, through trial and error.

Adam had woken that morning with the strange dream of long, forested roads in his mind’s eye (he hadn’t realized it was a vision, not until he saw the road in real life). In the moment after the dream but before he remembered where he was, he’d felt safe. Unafraid.

Which was rare; Adam had been afraid for so long. But as consciousness and memory returned to him, he’d remained with his cheek pressed to Ronan’s chest, arm resting on his torso, and matched his breathing to Ronan’s.

He’d wanted to stay in that moment forever. He’d thought (incorrectly) that, once they were both awake, Ronan’s fury would return, and in that anger he would throw Adam’s moment of weakness in his face.

How foolish Adam had been. No matter how many times Ronan proved himself, Adam had still waited, fearfully, for the other shoe to drop.

Now, Adam’s faith in Ronan was resolute. Ronan would not hurt Adam, would not hold grudges, would keep his word as best he could. He was far from perfect (laughably so, in fact), but then, so was Adam.

What mattered was Ronan had seen Adam at his most vulnerable, and rather than back away, he had shared in Adam's burdens. All day long, Adam had felt light with happiness, more like himself—no, a better version of himself—than he had in a long time. Adam liked the person he became when he was around Ronan. He became someone who was capable of selflessness. Someone who was capable of showing affection. Someone capable of receiving it.

Which made the discovery about Ronan’s dad all the more bitter a pill to swallow. Adam should have known his happiness would be a short-lived thing.

Just as Ronan had shared in Adam’s catharsis the night previously, so had Adam been engulfed in a violent sadness that was not his own. It was possibly a result of the magic of this place: Adam picking up on Ronan’s energy like a radio antennae. But it was also the simple fact that Ronan had become Adam’s friend, and Adam desperately wanted Ronan to be all right.

Now, Ronan was gone, his energy crackling like a live wire, to stew in fury and misery that could not be coming at a more awful time. Adam felt a flash of annoyance at Mr. Gray (couldn’t he have lied to Ronan about his dad?), but Mr. Gray and Ronan had been butting heads since they’d met each other. He couldn’t be surprised that things had gone up in flames eventually.

Adam wondered if he should go to Ronan. Ronan hadn’t seemed to want company, and Adam himself would want to be alone; but, as always, he couldn’t be sure what Ronan would want. They were so different.

Tires squealed in the distance, yanking Adam from his tortured reverie. His heart leapt to his throat as a beat up sedan sped towards him and Mr. Gray, a tan Volvo SUV hot on its heels.

“Stay in the car!” Mr. Gray demanded, rushing to pull open the driver’s side door and keel behind it. Adam saw with a jolt of fear that the hitman was holding a black handgun at the ready.

 _Mr. Gray was right_ Adam thought frantically. _This was a trap._ He had no idea how, but Piper Greenmantle must have figured out a way to send him the vision that led them here. Did that mean—god, was Ronan okay—?

He chanced a look at the newcomers through the rear windshield. The driver in the SUV was obscured by the reflection of tree branches overhead, but the front seat passenger shifted, and Adam got a clear look of his face.

Even from thirty feet away, the tanned, stately features of the passenger rang familiar.

It was the teenager Adam had seen while scrying—Ronan’s roommate, he remembered. What was his name again?

_Gansey._

“Mr. Gray, wait!” Adam shouted, just as Mr. Gray fired the gun.

The blast was deafening and Adam dove into a crouch where he sat, heart thundering in his chest.

There were yells from the vehicles behind them, and over the ringing in his ears he shouted, again: “Mr. Gray! Stop! Don’t shoot!”

Adam stumbled from the car in time to see the driver’s side door of the SUV fly open and a dark-haired man emerged, cocking a shotgun and aiming it at Mr. Gray.

Upon seeing Adam, the man carrying the shotgun swung the weapon towards him instead, prompting Mr. Gray to stand fully, gun still drawn.

“Drop it!” Mr. Gray shouted.

Adam’s hands flew into the air in surrender as he stared down the barrel of the shotgun, praying he wasn’t wrong, praying he wasn’t about to be shot full of holes, just praying--

The back door of the SUV flew open.

_“ADAM!”_

The person who emerged from the back seat was so unbelievable, so unlikely, so _impossible_ that for a moment, Adam’s brain refused to accept what he was seeing.

By the time his brain had caught up, Blue Sargent was hurtling herself at him, engulfing him in a hug so ferocious that Adam staggered backwards.

“Blue?” He asked dumbly.

Blues arms were wrapped tightly around his torso, her face buried in his chest. Spiky tufts of hair poked Adam’s chin. Adam couldn’t tell which of them were shaking—maybe they both were.

“We weren’t sure you- we tried to follow their vision, Persephone said she couldn’t be sure-“

Nothing she was saying made sense, and Adam realized that Mr. Gray and the SUV’s driver were still pointing firearms at one another.

“We’re all on the same side here,” a shaky voice called out. It belonged to the teen he recognized—Gansey—who was slowly emerging from the SUV, hands raised. “So you can _both_ lower your weapons.”

The last bit was directed to the SUV’s driver.

Slowly, the driver lowered his shotgun, revealing a wavy thicket of dark hair and strong, angular features. Blood was dripping down the man’s temple. Upon seeing his face in full, Adam’s brain said _Ronan,_ but that made no sense. The newcomer was a stranger and Adam realized he was only a little older than Adam himself. Possibly still in high school.

Two women were emerging from the beat-up sedan. One had a billowing cloud of long, white hair and the other—who Adam immediately guessed to be Blue’s mother—shouted: “Blue Sargent! How DARE you run into the middle of a gunfight! You could have been _shot_!”

“Where’s Ronan?” Gansey called out to Adam and Mr. Gray. He was walking cautiously towards them, hands still raised, even though Mr. Gray had lowered his gun.

“You should have passed him on your way in. He walked that way only ten minutes ago. You didn’t see him?” Adam asked.

“No,” Gansey said faintly. “We didn’t… Oh, god, where…?” He hunched over, as though he’d been punched in the gut, and rested shaking hands on his knees. Blue let go of Adam and strode towards Gansey to rest a hand supportively on his shoulder.

The SUV’s driver swore loudly. “Why’d he run off?” he demanded, throwing his shotgun into the SUV.

“We had a disagreement,” Mr. Gray said mildly, taking in the newcomers. His gaze landed on Blue’s mom, and they sized each other up for a brief moment.

“Typical,” the SUV driver muttered, throwing himself back into the vehicle and slamming the door. 

“You’ll find him.” Blue’s voice was firm and Gansey stood, nodding and straightening his gold, wire-rimmed glasses.

“We’ll be right back,” he said to the group. He scrambled into the passenger seat and a moment later, the SUV roared to life and did a 180, peeling out the way they’d arrived, gravel spitting beneath its wheels.

“I take it he isn’t one of your kidnappers?” Blue asked, nodding her head in Mr. Gray’s direction.

“No,” Adam said, quickly, because everyone’s eyes kept flicking to Mr. Gray mistrustfully. “That’s Mr. Gray. He used to work for Greenmantle, but he got me and Ronan out.”

“And, you all are…?” Mr. Gray asked the three women politely.

“I’m Blue,” Blue said, putting her hands on her hips. “I go to school with Adam. Gansey—that’s the one with the awful boat shoes—is Ronan’s best friend. That’s my mom, Maura and my Aunt Persephone.”

“Hello, Adam,” the woman with the silver-white mane of hair—Persephone—said. She was wearing a long dress made of cream-colored lace. “It’s nice to meet you in the physical world.”

Adam stared at her, startled, trying to reconcile this wispy waif of a woman to the powerful presence she exuded in his mind. She smiled knowingly at him.

“And the young man I shot?” Mr. Gray asked.

“That’s Declan. Ronan’s older brother. You should apologize for that, the bullet grazed his forehead. He’s bleeding,” Blue snapped.

“He was just defending us.” Adam’s voice was sharper than he’d meant it to be. He lessened the severity of his tone to ask, “Is he okay?”

“Oh, I think he’ll be fine,” Blue said with a sigh. “We have a first aid kit.”

At the rate Mr. Gray was going, Adam thought, the hitman was going to be single-handedly responsible for wiping out the entire Lynch family.

“How did you find us?” Mr. Gray asked.

“Through Adam, I think,” Persephone said.

Mr. Gray shot Adam a look that was not exactly angry, but was certainly displeased. Adam’s mouth fell open in protest.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Adam said quickly. To Persephone, he said: “ _You_ sent me the vision. To tell me to come here…?” It came out as a question.

Persephone tilted her head. “No, Adam. You saw the future, and that lead all of us here.”

“But- I can’t see the future,” Adam said, a little faintly. “I’m not that kind of psychic.”

Persephone’s serene smile widened in delight.

“But Adam,” she said, surprised. “That is _exactly_ the kind of psychic you are.” 

*

While they waited for Gansey and Declan to return with Ronan, everyone congregated around the hood of the blue sedan that the pair of women had driven up in. Adam anxiously tried not to think too hard about Declan’s shotgun. How would Declan react once he found out what Mr. Gray had done to his dad?

He was distracted by a sudden, piercing pressure to his eardrums. He winced.

“I’m fine,” he said, when he caught Mr. Gray’s concerned look. “I just… you two are…” he gestured to Persephone and Maura, though he wasn’t sure how to verbalize the strange, weightless pressure that seemed to be emanating from them both.

“Loud?” Persephone suggested helpfully.

“I was about to say the same to you,” Maura said to Adam. “It’s my daughter’s fault.”

Adam couldn’t see how Blue could be responsible for this, and he looked at her quizzically.

“She’s not blaming me,” Blue clarified. “I’m an amplifier. For psychics. I make everyone’s energy louder.”

“As if the energy in this place wasn’t loud enough already,” Maura said.

Adam had known, in a peripheral sort of way, that Blue’s mom was a psychic. He’d even asked Blue one or two questions about it at school, as he’d started to wonder if his weirdness could have some grander explanation.

“How exactly did you find us?” He asked the three women.

Blue jumped in to explain again. “I didn’t even know you were missing. I called your house, to see if you wanted to hang out, and your mom said you were working out of state for the summer. You never called me back. I figured you were busy with work and I’d see you once school started.” She twisted her face apologetically, but Adam didn’t blame Blue in the least. Their friendship had largely been confined to school lunches spent together and the occasional shared class. The mere fact that Blue was here now—must have driven through the night to get to him—blew him away.

Blue continued, “Gansey showed up for a reading, like, a week ago? Told us that his friend was missing, and asked if we could help him. Persephone figured out that you and Ronan were together. After _that_ , she kept scrying, looking for you guys.” She looked at Adam, her expression accusing. “You never told me you were psychic. When Persephone told me I just about fell off my chair.”

Now it was Adam’s turn to be apologetic. He looked down at his feet and scuffed a battered sneaker at the weeds. “I never knew how to bring it up.”

“Aw, it’s all right,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm, smiling to let Adam know she wasn’t actually mad. “So, anyway- yesterday, Mom, Persephone, and Calla—that’s my other aunt—all had the same vision of coming here to meet you. Calla stayed home to watch Ronan’s younger brother and we drove all night to get here.” 

“If I’d known how many guns were going to be involved,” Maura said sharply, “I never would have allowed my daughter to join us.” She was looking pointedly at Mr. Gray.

He inclined his head, chastened. “I wish guns weren’t necessary,” he said.

“What’s the best way to get back to Virigina?” Maura asked him, pulling out a map and unfolding it over the hood of the car. “Should we go back the way we came? Or is that not safe? Persephone senses you’re being followed.”

“I would not recommend heading back to Virginia just yet,” Mr. Gray said, moving to stand by Maura’s side. As one, they leaned in to peer over the map together.

“What about you?” Blue asked Adam in an undertone as the adults continued to discuss their next move. “Are you okay?” Her eyes darted from Adam’s bruises to Mr. Gray. “He didn’t-?”

“That wasn’t him,” Adam assured her. “I’m honestly fine. Just glad to be out of there.”

“Why did that Colin Greenmantle guy want you and Ronan, anyway?” Blue asked. “I mean, there are tons of psychics out there if he's so concerned about knowing the future. Not all of them legit, but…”

“It’s kind of a long story.” And it wasn’t entirely his to tell. He wanted to talk to Ronan first, find out how much he felt comfortable sharing. “How do you know about Greenmantle?”

“Some lady called Declan up two nights ago. Told him his brother had been kidnapped by an antiques collector but had escaped with a hitman. Declan was losing his mind, waiting for Ronan to contact him or Gansey.”

“Yeah, well. The good news is Colin Greenmantle’s dead. The bad news is, his wife isn’t, and she's... kind of terrifying.”

"Girl power. Cool." 

Adam rolled his eyes and Blue cracked a grin that disappeared as the SUV came into view. Adam searched Gansey and Declan’s faces anxiously, heart sinking when he saw Gansey’s defeated expression. Declan’s jaw was set in anger; Adam had no trouble seeing the resemblance to Ronan. Blood had congealed on the older teen's forehead and was dripping steadily down the side of his face.

“Could Ronan be in the woods somewhere? Maybe he got lost?” Blue suggested as Maura unearthed a first aid kit from the sedan and waved Declan over.

“My brother has been texting me all day,” Mr. Gray said, drawing everyone’s attention. “The messages stopped thirty minutes ago. That could be the result of the spotty cell service, or it could be because he has taken Ronan and is waiting to hand him over to Piper Greenmantle.” To Declan, he said, “My brother will not hurt Ronan. Ronan is merely a means to an end, for him.”

Mr. Gray did not say what his brother’s end goal was, but Adam thought he knew.

Declan nodded in Mr. Gray’s direction, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the man had, only minutes earlier, tried to kill him. He crouched down next to the wheel of the SUV to allow Blue’s mom to examine his cut.

“I don’t understand why this Piper woman is going to so much trouble to get Ronan back. Surely there are easier ways to get a ransom,” Gansey said, wringing his hands together.

Adam’s brow furrowed. Declan caught his eye and shook his head, sharply. Adam took that to mean that Gansey did not know about Ronan’s dreaming. Well, Adam certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

“I’ll scry,” Adam announced. “To find Ronan.”

He expected lots of confused questions, but Blue just said, “Good idea” and Gansey nodded solemnly.

Adam looked to Persephone, who was digging through her colorful crochet handbag. “Um, could you anchor me?”

“We both will,” Maura said immediately, taping down a square of gauze that Declan was holding in place. “Three is better than two.”

“Not here,” Mr. Gray said. “We should go into the nearest town, somewhere public.”

“There isn’t time,” Persephone said, unearthing a deck of tarot cards. Adam hadn’t realized she’d even been paying attention to their conversation up to this point. “First, we should do a reading?” This was directed at Maura.

Maura nodded and said, “Blue, could you grab my cards?” Blue ducked inside the blue sedan.

“We should figure out our coordinates to send to Helen,” Gansey said to Declan. “She can bring the helicopter and get Ronan out of here once we find him, since he’s the most at risk…”

As Gansey and Declan crowded around Gansey’s phone, Adam watched, transfixed, at the strange scene rapidly unfolding before him.

Maura and Persephone stood side-by-side over the hood of the blue sedan, worked fluidly in tandem: flipping through tarot cards, rearranging them, occasionally removing them. Persephone flipped one card (Adam couldn’t see which one) and showed it to Maura, who murmured in agreement.

“Piper Greenmantle’s on her way,” Maura said, almost off-handedly to Adam and Blue. “But we’ve got a little time.” She placed a card to the side.

Adam was in awe. What he’d been doing with Greenmantle’s tarot cards the past few months was mere child’s play compared to this.

“Hold on,” Maura said suddenly, shaking her head and gathering her cards to reshuffle. “Let’s start over. Blue, do you mind?” Blue obligingly stepped forward and Maura placed her hand on her daughter’s forearm as she spread the cards out in front of her again.

Adam turned to see what Mr. Gray’s reaction was to the two psychics, but the man was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t walked down the road; Adam would have seen him leaving. He stepped away from the car and jogged to the far side of the crumbling brick factory, a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

Mr. Gray was leaning on the wall facing the empty field behind the factory, smoking a slender, hand-rolled cigarette and tapping at his phone screen.

Without looking up, he said, “Don’t tell Maura I smoke. I don’t want her to think less of me.”

“I won’t tell Blue you said that.” Adam hesitated, before adding, “You’re… texting your brother.” It less of a question and more of a confirmation.

“Go back to the others, Adam.”

Adam quenched a jolt of panic. “If he finds you, he’ll kill you.”

Mr. Gray raised his eyebrows at Adam, as though they were sharing a private joke. “I’m aware of the consequences.”

It took Adam a disorienting moment to figure out why the response sounded so familiar. Then he remembered: he had said those exact words to Mr. Gray, days ago, when Mr. Gray had tried to talk him out of his plan to help Ronan escape the Greenmantles.

“Besides,” Mr. Gray said, and his tone was bland. “I think if any of us owes Lynch a life, it’s me. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Adam narrowed his eyes. "'Guilt is a useless emotion. I’d advise you not to let it be the basis for any decision.'"

Mr. Gray did not smile, but Adam could tell he was amused to hear his own advice thrown back at him. “Ah. You were paying attention.” He exhaled a stream of smoke and considered Adam for a moment. Adam felt himself stand a little taller under the scrutiny.

“What do you want to do, when all this is behind you?” Mr. Gray asked. “I don’t mean high school. Beyond that.”

Adam frowned at the sudden change in topic, his desperation to find Ronan at war with his sudden concern that Mr. Gray wouldn’t still be here when he returned.

“College,” he said shortly. “To study economics. Or law. I don’t- I’m still figuring out my strengths.”

“You’ve got a knack for languages. You’ll do well with whatever you choose.”

Adam blinked at the rare praise, even as his sense of unease grew. Why did this feel, suddenly, like a goodbye?

_“Adam! Mom and Persephone are ready!”_

He wanted to warn Mr. Gray, or tell him not to do anything stupid. But that was ridiculous. If there was anyone here who could take care of themselves, it was the hitman.

“Don’t-“

“Go find Lynch,” Mr. Gray said, turning back to his phone.

_“Adam!”_

Adam grimaced, momentarily torn, then turned and raced to the parking lot, where Blue grabbed his arm and dragged him towards a narrow gap in the factory’s metal doors.

*

Inside the crumbling brick building, Adam could make out the dark outlines of hulking machinery and a set of rotted stairs that led to a rickety platform above them. Dust swirled in the few squares of morning light streaming in from windows high above them.

In her Victorian lace dress, Persephone looked like an apparition in the dark, cavernous room. She and Maura sat cross-legged on the dusty concrete, their tarot cards laid out and a lit candle on the floor before them.

Adam approached and hesitantly took a seat in the empty space beside them, completing the triangle.

“You know Ronan’s energy better than either of us,” Persephone said. “We will anchor you while you scry.” She and Maura linked hands, and after a moment’s hesitation, Adam placed his own palms in theirs.

He glanced at Blue, standing off to the side. “Should I go?” she asked. “Is it too loud for you?”

“No,” Adam said, after considering her question for a moment. “I think it’s good.”

He tried to relax his shoulders and stared at the candle in front of him, watching the flame sputter and dance, taller and taller until…

“Look outside yourself.” Persephone’s voice echoed in Adam’s mind as he traversed the dark, powerful plane of spiritual energy—the ley line—that surrounded him. Time melted away, unable to match the pure, raw life force that vibrated around Adam like the night sky.

He searched fervently for the energy signature he’d come to know intimately as Ronan’s.

Maura and Persephone’s hands were warm and dry in his, and he was still partially aware of the lit candle before him. After an entire summer of scrying alone, having not one, but _two_ anchors made this almost simple. With each passing moment, Adam’s heart rate calmed, and he was able to ignore other energy hot points along the ley line with greater and greater ease.

He felt a tug behind his navel and directed his consciousness in the correct direction. Ronan’s energy: subdued, but insistent, beckoned him onwards.

“He’s—he’s there,” Adam said, his lips barely moving. Or maybe he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Go to him,” Persephone said. “We’ll draw you back if you wander too far.” It was possible she hadn’t spoken either.

Adam went.

It was like diving underwater while wearing goggles. One moment, Ronan’s form had been blurry, insubstantial, and distant; a smear of light in the strange colorful darkness that engulfed Adam. The next, Adam had broken through an invisible barrier and Ronan’s form was crystal clear where he lay, unmoving, on the spongy moss beneath them. They were in a forest.

Adam looked down and realized he had a body. He’d never maintained any sort of form when he scried before. He ran.

“ _Ronan_ ,” he called out, slamming to his knees and shaking Ronan’s shoulder.

Ronan rolled onto his back, eyes opening. His hands were clasped behind him, and he was curled up in a cramped ball. For a moment, Adam thought he saw handcuffs around Ronan’s wrists, but then they disappeared.

“Of fucking course,” Ronan muttered, his voice tight and raspy. He sat up and gazed at Adam, expression hollow.

“Where are we?” Adam asked. “Are you in the woods near the warehouse?”

This lush, green forest looked nothing like the brown, dry forest he’d left behind.

Ronan wrinkled his forehead, staring intently at Adam. “No,” he muttered. He frowned in concentration, then said, “Come on, Cabeswater. Take away his bruises. I don’t want to see that shit.”

“Where are you, then? What’s Cabeswater?”

Ronan didn’t seem to care what Adam was saying. He reached out and brushed his thumb along Adam’s cheekbone, where Adam knew there was a yellowing bruise. His hand was gentle, reverent. Adam was a little thrown by the sudden contact.

“This is Cabeswater,” Ronan murmured.

Adam grabbed Ronan’s shoulders. Ronan wasn’t making any sense.

“Ronan. Where are you? Are you scrying?”

“I’m dreaming, Parrish. Obviously.”

Now that Ronan mentioned it, there _was_ a certain dream-like quality to the place around them. The colors were too bright here, and there was a strange lack of noise. Adam had never scried into one of Ronan’s dreams, before. He hadn’t realized he _could._ There wasn’t time to sit and marvel, though.

“Does Mr. Gray’s brother have you?”

Ronan closed his eyes, like Adam’s words were painful for him. “Do we have to do this right now? Can’t we just…”

He leaned in, then, pulling Adam close and resting his forehead on Adam’s shoulder. A quiet rain began to fall, small droplets splattering on Adam’s face despite the sun overhead. Adam cautiously brought a hand to Ronan’s back.

“I can’t do this anymore, Adam. I fucking can’t.” Ronan’s voice was wretched.

“Ronan,” Adam said urgently. “Don’t give up.”

“I’m not giving up. I just…”

Adam wished they had time for Ronan’s grief. He wished he could comfort Ronan in the same way Ronan had comforted him. He wished he could hold onto Ronan forever. But he couldn’t do any of that until Ronan was safe in the waking world.

“Ronan,” Adam said again. “Where are you?”

“Fuck, man,” Ronan said, unmoving. “You just cannot let it go. This is what I get for paying too much attention to the real you.”

Ronan’s words were confusing. Did Ronan… think that Adam was a dream thing? Adam remembered his admission when they’d first woken at the motel:

_I thought I dreamt you._

Adam pulled away from Ronan and stared him in the face. “Ronan. I’m real. I’m here. I’m scrying right now, with Blue’s mom and Persephone-“ Adam realized Ronan didn’t know. “Your brother’s here with Gansey. They found us after you left.”

Ronan’s expression was doing complicated things. “Take him away, Cabeswater,” he said. “Get rid of him, I don’t-“

“What?” Adam looked around, alarmed, but the forest seemed uninterested in either of them.

“Don’t say shit like that,” Ronan said, his voice harsh and wrecked. “Gansey- Don’t get my hopes up, I can’t-“

“ _I’m not lying, Ronan!_ ” The words exploded out of Adam, desperate and fearful. “They’re here, they came to get us, but _we need to know where you are_.”

Ronan stared at Adam as though he’d never seen him before. “I’m in the trunk of a car,” he said, finally.

“Who’s car?”

“Gray’s brother. We drove for a few minutes, but now we’re stopped.”

“Are you okay? He hasn’t hurt you?”

“Fucker chased me down and almost knocked me out. He’s got a nice little kill kit in here, but I’m fine. Handcuffs are cutting off my circulation though.”

“You need to dream something to get out.”

Ronan’s face fell. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I mean-“ Ronan gestured to the verdant forest around them. “Something’s off. I didn’t dream at the motel, which is weird. And now, it’s like… usually, anything I think of, I can at least create it in my dream, even if I can’t bring it back. But now…” He shook his head. “Maybe it was the night horrors. I dreamt so much shit at once, it’s like I…”

“Depleted the energy of the ley line.”

“Yeah. Kavinsky did it too sometimes, whenever he dreamt really big shit. Used all the dream juice up, and we had to wait for it to recharge.”

“But there’s _so much_ energy at the factory,” Adam said. “You felt it too, right?”

“Yeah. But I can’t access it. I don’t why. Maybe it's-“

Ronan vanished.

Adam spun around, blood thundering in his ears, but the dream forest was flickering and fading around him.

“Help me!” Adam called out in desperation. He sensed there was sentience, here, somehow. “Help me to help him!”

The trees rustled with what could have been language.

“I don’t understand,” Adam said.

The trees rustled again, and this time, their words were in English:

_Fix the line._

“Adam? Are you ready to return?”

Persephone stood beside him, looking at him intently in Cabeswater’s flickering light. She held out her hand, and Adam took it, allowing himself to be pulled back into the physical world.

He returned to his body with a jolt and a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Mr. Gray’s brother has Ronan in the trunk of his car,” he said immediately. “He’s okay, but there’s something wrong with the ley line. He can't access the energy to-” he cut himself off when he realized Gansey was standing in the doorway beside Declan.

Maura and Persephone seemed to be having some sort of nonverbal conversation.

“Now that you mention it,” Maura said, slowly. “We feel it too. The energy of the ley line here is enormous, but it’s not healthy. It’s been building up with no release for a long time.

“Like a bottle’s neck,” Persephone added in her tiny voice.

“Now what?” Declan’s question was more of a demand. “How the hell do we get to Ronan?”

Maura and Persephone both selected a card from their respective tarot decks. Maura frowned when she saw hers: the King of Swords.

“We should get ready to leave,” she said, slowly. “Ronan will be here, soon, thanks to Mr. Gray.” She looked to Persephone questioningly.

“It’s the only way, Maura,” Persephone said quietly, holding up the Hanged Man card in her hand.

“No. It isn’t clear how it will end. He could change it,” Maura shot back, drawing a second card--The Magician-- and pointing it at Adam.

“Hm,” Persephone said, though she sounded unconvinced. She looked at Adam, and Adam knew with a cold, dreadful certainty that she, too, had seen a sacrifice when she'd looked at the Hanged Man card.

“Helen’s on her way in the helicopter,” Gansey said. “The reception cut out, so I don’t know how far she is, but she has our coordinates.”

As if on cue, they all heard the distant _thump-thump-thump_ of a helicopter's blades.

“Good,” Maura said, getting to her feet. “We’ll send you three with her when it arrives.” She was gesturing to Blue, Adam and Gansey.

“Mom-“

“Don’t argue with me, Blue, it isn’t safe here.”

“Persephone? Ma’am?” Adam wasn’t sure how to address her. The woman looked up from her bag, where she was stowing away the candle and her cards. “What did the cards tell you, just now?”

Persephone tilted her head. “The future is set in clay, not stone.”

Adam’s mind whirred. “So it’s- changeable. I could change it.”

Persephone didn’t need to respond; Adam saw the answer on her face. His heart rate—already thrumming with anxiety over Ronan’s predicament—ratcheted up another notch. He jumped to his feet and rushed outside, ignoring Blue’s questioning yell as he raced across the parking lot.

Mr. Gray was nowhere in sight; wherever he’d gone to meet his brother, it was within walking distance.

Adam tore open the passenger side door of Mr. Gray’s car, yanked open the glove compartment and withdrew the small, silver pistol.

*****

The Gray Man had not felt much of anything as he’d texted his brother to arrange a meeting place. He was, distantly, a little disappointed he would never finish the book he’d recently started (It was the official biography of The Kinks, one of his favorite bands).

He passed the older Lynch brother and the friend where they were crowded together in front of the SUV, frowning over a cell phone and Maura's map.

“Tell her to look for a landmark-“

“What landmark?”

Declan Lynch glanced briefly in his direction, and the Gray Man considered apologizing for shooting the teen (really, it had been irrational for the Gray Man to shoot without knowing all the facts), but Declan was then distracted by the boy beside him and the moment passed.

“How far back would you say that cell phone tower was? The one we drove by-?”

As the Gray Man continued past them, down the winding gravel road (keeping his eyes peeled for the footpath his brother had texted him about), he realized that he was not surprised in the least that this was how everything was playing out.

_Your plan will work, but it will require sacrifice._

Adam Parrish’s prophesy—well, it had been Persephone’s prophesy, but Parrish had been the messenger—had filled the Gray Man with denial. He was a man oriented for survival at all costs, so it made sense he had tried to avoid this.

But, deep down, he’d known what would eventually be required of him if he chose to get Parrish and Lynch safely out of the Greenmantle household.

He didn’t believe in fate, but this felt… correct. His final act could not correct a lifetime of wrongs, but the Gray Man was satisfied that, at the very least, his death would not entirely be in vain.

He found the footpath near the paved, single-lane road by which they’d entered. He wondered, idly, where his brother had stashed his vehicle; somewhere in the woods, if the Lynch brother and the rich friend hadn’t seen it.

It didn’t matter. Far away, the Gray Man felt, more than heard, the rotating blades of a helicopter. The rich boy’s sister must be on her way.

He needed to move, fast. 

The path led him to a dilapidated shed in the woods. Kneeling in front of the shed was Ronan Lynch, duct tape covering his mouth and his hands restrained behind his back. His expression was furious as his eyes bored into the Gray Man's.

Standing behind Lynch, pressing an electric drill to the teenager’s head with his finger hovering over the “on” lever was the Gray Man’s older brother.

“Hello, Dean,” his brother said.

The Gray Man had worked hard to become everything Dean was not: capable, powerful, unafraid.

Dean was weak; a victim. Dean did not know how to fight back. The Gray Man hated Dean.

But because his older brother had used his given name, Dean was who the Gray Man became in his presence, and it was who he became now.

The years had been good to Gregory. He still stood a few inches taller than Dean and his smile was as wide and charming as ever. Distantly, Dean noticed new crow’s feet around his eyes, though his beard and hair were still full and blonde without a hint of grey. Dean had never been able to grow facial hair like Gregory could.

Mechanically, Dean pulled his Beretta from his shoulder holster, letting it hang at his side.

“I need to get me one of those,” Gregory said conversationally. “But I’ll make do.”

He turned on the electric drill. The high-pitched whine elicited the smallest of movements from Lynch; barely enough to be considered a flinch. The thin, lethally spinning drill bit hovered a millimeter from the teenager’s head.

Dean raised his gun. Rather than pointing it at his brother, though, he pressed the weapon to his own temple.

Gregory’s smile froze.

“You should know,” Dean said, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the whir of the electric screwdriver. “I’d rather die than go with you. Let Lynch go and I won't end it all before you get the chance to.” He gestured in the direction of the approaching helicopter, barely heard over the whine of the drill. “Piper’s here. You’ve carried out your side of the bargain.”

Lynch’s eyes were wide, transfixed on the Gray Man’s face.

Gregory bared his teeth in a terrifying parody of a smile. He turned off the drill, tossing it aside as he yanked Lynch upwards by the arm. He fiddled with whatever was restraining the teenager’s wrists; a moment later, Ronan’s arms were free and Gregory shoved the teenager away from him.

Dean's entire focus was on his older brother’s grey eyes, which were calculating behind the bright exterior.

“Well played, little brother,” Gregory said, impressed. To Lynch, he said: “I’d get moving if I were you.”

Lynch was standing a few feet away, staring between the two men. Then he turned and ran, crashing through the bushes in his ridiculously oversized snow boots.

Gregory strolled forward, hand outstretched. “Now hand me the gun, Dean.”

It didn’t even occur to Dean to disobey. He lowered the gun from his temple.

_Now hand me the fire poker, Dean._

_Dean felt searing pain. He smelled burning flesh—his own._

He tried to blink away the memory.

His older brother was holding the gun now. When had that happened?

Gregory circled Dean so that he was standing behind him, then pressed the barrel of the weapon to the small of Dean’s back.

“I cannot begin to tell you how much I’m going to enjoy playing with you,” he said. Dean did not reply. His brother had not given him permission to speak. “Walk.”

Dean walked.

*

Ronan thundered through the underbrush, rubbing feeling back into his hands and trying to find the gravel road that would lead him back to the factory. The skin on his face tingled where he’d ripped off the duct tape, and the back of his head ached where Gray’s brother had bashed his head with the drill before restraining him and tossing him in his car’s trunk like a sack of potatoes.

Before today, Ronan hadn’t known he was claustrophobic.

He wasn’t sure what the deal was between Gray and his brother (Did Gray owe his brother money? Kill his brother’s girlfriend?), but whatever it was, they could leave him out of it.

The hitman’s actions had been pretty extreme, though, for someone who actively disliked Ronan. Ronan still burned with fury over what the man had done to Ronan’s father, but the memory of Gray’s expression (fatalistic and resigned; truly a man at the end of his rope) had given Ronan pause.

Up ahead, he saw a figure dart behind a tree, then reemerge. _Adam._ He tripped spectacularly in his haste but Adam caught and steadied him with one hand; in his other, he held the silver pistol from Gray’s car.

“Oh, thank god, Ronan, where’s Mr. Gray?”

Ronan tried to catch his breath. “His brother,” he panted.

“Which direction?”

“Dude, you _cannot_ go back there-“

“Ronan! _Ronan!_ ”

Ronan was momentarily stunned. But--yes, that was Gansey, looking rumpled and tired and so very real as he sprinted towards Ronan.

Ronan was running before he realized he'd made the decision to move. The best friends collided into one another, and Gansey was gripping Ronan so tight Ronan couldn’t breath, and Ronan clutched at Gansey while laughing with crazed, wild abandon.

He hadn’t been sure if the Adam from his dream was telling the truth. He hadn’t dared to hope that Gansey might actually be there. “Fuck, fuck, man _fuck_ -“ 

Gansey was laughing, or crying, or both as he gripped Ronan’s arms and pulled away, giving Ronan a close look.

“Are you hurt? Are you-“

Ronan pulled Gansey in for another monster hug, unable to wipe the stupid grin off his face. Gansey smelled like mint, and, fuck, it felt like home.

Further down the trail, Declan came to a halt and stared. Blood was seeping through a wad of gauze taped to his forehead.

“What the hell, Declan?” Ronan demanded over Gansey's shoulder, pulling away from Gansey to furiously wipe away his tears. “I leave you for like five fucking minutes and you're bleeding all over the place-?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Declan said, though he was staring at Ronan like he was seeing a ghost. “I see _you’re_ fine, don’t know why we went to all this trouble to find you-“ he broke off, seemingly unable to continue. There wasn’t any bite to his brother's words, and Ronan found himself unable to summon any vitriol when Declan looked so close to passing out with relief.

Their relationship was so much easier when all they did was fight.

“Matthew?” Ronan croaked. Matthew was always the great equalizer, the one thing that could draw Ronan and Declan to their senses, and right now was no different.

Declan seemed to snap out of his daze. “He’s fine, he’s with Blue’s aunt.”  
  
“You aren’t hurt?” Gansey asked again, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve beneath his glasses. Ronan shook his head.

“Who fucked up your head?” Ronan shot at Declan. “I want to send them flowers.”

“Your buddy Gray _shot_ me,” Declan snapped back, and Ronan suddenly felt a lot more charitable towards the hitman.

“Come on,” Declan said. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“Fine,” Ronan conceded. “Parrish-“

He turned, but Adam wasn’t there. Shit, _shit_ \--

A gun went off in the direction Ronan had just come from.

The direction where Gray was standing off against his brother.

The direction Adam had just gone. 

“Shit, I gotta go back-“

“No,” Declan said, striding furiously towards Ronan. “We’re putting you on Helen’s fucking helicopter and you're-"

“Fuck you!” Ronan snarled, turning away and starting in the direction he’d come. Declan bear hugged him from behind, literally dragging Ronan away. Ronan reacted violently, twisting and snarling as Gansey watched, expression a little weary.

“NO, Ronan! We’re not doing this anymore! Adam made his choice, he knows the plan-”

Another gun shot, again coming from the direction Adam had gone. Above them, the helicopter loomed into view, the whir of the blades quickly becoming deafening.

“That’s not Helen!” Gansey shouted, his forehead knit with confusion.

Ronan looked up; the helicopter was low enough that he could see a pale, blonde woman pressed against the window, looking directly down at him.

Piper Greenmantle had found them.

*

_this will only hurt a little_

_aw, don’t be such a baby_

_this can be our secret, right little bro?_

Childhood memories that Dean thought he’d forgotten rattled around in his mind, jarred lose from hearing his brother’s voice for the first time in so many years.

Dean wasn’t sure where they were going, but that didn’t matter. The end result would be the same, whether it was here, or in his brother’s car, or a hundred miles away.

Another childhood memory rose to the surface of his mind, unbidden:

_Kneel._

_Dean knelt. He was young, but he already knew better than to argue, knew better than to fight, even as the blade pierced the skin of his shoulder, even as he was carved up like a pumpkin—never deep enough to kill, just enough to feel—_

“Let him go.”

Dean stumbled as his brother’s hand tightened on his shoulder, grinding him to a halt. Dean recognized the voice, though he momentarily couldn’t put a name to it as he turned, slowly.

Adam Parrish was perhaps twenty feet behind them, edging around a tree and pointing the small, silver pistol from the sedan’s glove compartment at Gregory. 

It was clear he was uncomfortable to be holding the weapon; he was merely a boy playing at violence. Dean’s older brother saw this, too.

“Oh, put that down,” Gregory said, unconcerned. 

Parrish fired the gun.

It made a surprisingly loud _BANG_ for something so small. Dean’s heart stopped, but the shot had gone wide. Parrish was clearly worried about hitting Dean and it was throwing off his aim. Or, perhaps, Parrish was just a terrible shot.

"What do you think? Should I have the kid join in on our fun and games, too?" Gregory asked Dean in a low, amused voice, pressing the black Beretta painfully into Dean's spine.

Dean's blood pressure plummeted. _No, no, no--_

The helicopter swept into view above them, but despite the noise, Parrish didn't waver as he raised the gun again. 

He was not afraid, and that was what worried Dean the most. Parrish should be afraid. He had no idea what Gregory was capable of. 

"Adam, run! Just go!" Dean shouted, but the words were swept away in the wind and noise from the rapidly approaching helicopter.

Parrish did not run.

Instead, he pressed his lips together and lined up another shot, squinting with concentration. 

He fired the gun again.

_BANG._

The bullet soared past Gregory and found Dean instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [an alternate book cover I made for this fic.](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/post/617226635217944576/i-made-a-book-cover-for-my-current-raven-cycle-wip)
> 
> Real talk: I can't tell you how much I appreciate your comments. This fic is my biggest accomplishment in quarantine and will be forever remembered as such. You'll notice I've added yet ANOTHER chapter to the final count. This is mostly because I can't outline for shit, but probably also because I just don't want this journey to end! <3


	9. nine

This was not the first time Dean had ever been shot. Still, it wasn’t exactly an experience one got _used_ to.

He felt the impact to his upper thigh (no worse than a hornet’s sting) a moment before he felt the pain, localized and entirely manageable—for now. Dean knew from experience the area would soon feel white-hot before slowly spreading outwards from the point of entry; it all depended on how deep the bullet had gone and whether it had hit bone.

Dean was by no means a doctor, but one did tend to acquire a working knowledge of human anatomy after killing as many people as he had. And what he had learned was this:

If you wanted to kill a man slowly, with maximum amount of blood loss, you might want to aim for his upper thigh, where a severed femoral artery would bleed a man out in five agonizing minutes.

Dean did not need to look to know he had been shot near this important artery; the location of the pain told him everything he needed to know. Only after acknowledging the potentially fatal nature of his injury did he feel any sort of emotion.

Relief.

_Better this than to die by my brother’s hand._

The brother in question took in Dean’s hunched form and the blot of syrupy blood that Dean could feel seeping through his grey slacks. Gregory’s face contorted with unbridled rage.

“Are you FUCKING kidding me?” he roared, spinning around and waving the black Beretta in Parrish’s direction.

All color had drained from the teenager’s face and the .22 pistol dropped from his limp fingers as he stared at Dean in abject horror of what he’d done.

"I’ve spent YEARS planning for this- Dean is _MINE TO KILL-"_

Gregory stalked forward, bearing down on Parrish, who flinched terribly, stumbling and landing, hard, on the dry forest floor. He immediately looked up—first at Gregory, who was closing the distance with alarming speed— then at Dean, his expression stricken.

Gregory aimed the handgun at Parrish’s head, but Parrish continued to stare at Dean, his face betraying only raw, panicked apology.

Dean had a sudden moment of crystal clarity:

His brother was going to kill Adam.

This knowledge, paired with the sharp, strangely invigorating pain in his thigh, shook Dean from his stupor and goaded him to action.

Gregory really should have known better than to turn his back on a professional killer.

With cobra-like agility, Dean lunged for Gregory, using one arm to wrap around and immobilize his brother’s right shoulder and the other to deliver a savage blow to his left kidney.

The Beretta fired into the air as Gregory snarled and struggled, trying to escape Dean’s iron grasp, but Dean was relentless in his attack, delivering a series of savage blows to his brother’s lower back until Gregory’s knees buckled, after which Dean disarmed him with the sort of ease that only comes from years of experience.

In under thirty seconds, Dean had regained control of the Beretta, the butt of which he smashed ruthlessly across Gregory’s face—twice. Gregory fell to his knees and Dean stepped to the side, blocking Adam’s view as he pressed the barrel of the gun to his brother’s forehead.

For a long moment, Gregory looked up at Dean. Above them, the helicopter moved off, leaving a loaded silence in its wake. Then, Gregory smiled around a mouth full of bloody, broken teeth.

“Dean,” he said, his voice smooth and conciliatory and straight out of every one of Dean’s nightmares.

“That is no longer my name,” Dean said, and he shot his older brother in the forehead.

 _This_ was how he would remember Gregory, from now on. A mere mortal, sprawled dead on the forest floor. No different than any of the other men and women Dean had disposed of in his line of work. He felt a certain sense of correctness, the world righting and orienting itself in vivid color around him.

He turned to Adam, and he was the Gray Man once more.

Adam scrambled to his feet, his eyes glued to the Gray Man’s leg. “Mr. Gray, I’m so sorry, what should-?“

“It’s all right, Adam.”

His reassuring words did nothing to put the teenager at ease; if anything, they only seemed to heighten his agitation.

The Gray Man felt no ill-will towards Adam; quite the opposite. If Adam hadn’t arrived when he did (hadn’t shot Dean and shaken him from his trauma-induced stupor) the Gray Man would still be in his brother’s clutches.

The Gray Man exhaled sharply through his teeth as the adrenaline coursing through him subsided enough for him to feel his injury once again.

“What should- what should we do?” Adam asked in breathless panic. “Do we need to apply pressure?”

Probably. But now that the Gray Man was paying attention to his injury, this pain was different than it had been on the two other occasions he’d been unfortunate enough to catch a bullet (once in his shoulder, once in his calf).

Bullet wounds, in his experience, were marked by the slow spread of pain. This pain in his leg now was sharp, pointed. More on par with a stabbing.

Finally, the Gray Man looked down at his injury.

Crimson, sticky blood bloomed from the area of his pocket, and the fabric of his grey pants clung to his thigh, making the spread seem worse than it was. No wonder Adam looked like he was about to throw up. There was not, however, nearly the amount of blood one would expect from a severed femoral artery. The Gray Man moved, slightly, and again—there was that sharp, jutting pain.

Mr. Gray cautiously prodded the painful area and felt something metal.

A chain?

Ah. Right.

He reached into his pocket and unearthed Lynch’s dream necklace.

The sharp edges of the necklace—thick diamonds and rubies inlaid in enormous chunks of pointed gold—were all coated with the Gray Man’s blood. The thick chain was mangled and two of the diamonds had shattered; if the Gray Man had to guess, he’d say the bullet must have ricocheted.

Speaking of bullets: there, embedded in the heart of the largest ruby, was the .22 caliber bullet, stopped in its trajectory by this incredible dream thing.

Actual rubies, the Gray Man mused, probably would not stop a bullet. But whatever strange magic Lynch had used to create his necklace had produced a stone that apparently could.

It was amusing, really. If someone had told the Gray Man that one of the teens he’d rescued would almost kill him and the other would prevent his death, he would never have guessed Lynch would be the one to save his life. Lynch would be irate when he found out.

“Adam,” the Gray Man said calmly, showing him the necklace. “I’m fine. Really.”

“But- the blood-”

The Gray Man bent his knee experimentally and cautiously felt around his thigh. His fingertips came away sticky and red, but the blood was leaking sluggishly, not gushing. For Adam’s benefit, he did not wince as what he now knew to be shards of shattered diamond dug deeper into his skin. The bullet-studded ruby had probably dug into his skin a bit, causing most of the blood.

“Might require a few stitches. I have a kit in my car.” He’d ask Maura if she was interested in learning some basic field surgery. The Gray Man could stitch himself up, of course, but the opportunity to get to know the woman better was a decidedly attractive one. After all, she wasn't wearing a wedding ring (he'd checked).

Adam still looked like he was on the verge of passing out. He put his face in his hands; for a moment, the Gray Man feared the teenager was about to start sobbing. Bullet wounds were considerably more firmly in his realm of expertise.

Adam took a shaky breath—then another.

He looked up, and the Gray Man was relieved to see that Adam’s face was dry and carefully composed.

“Mr. Gray, I’m- I’m so sorry,” Adam said, his voice weak. “I can’t believe I-“

“Did you mean to shoot me?”

“Of _course_ not.”

“Then I see no reason for you to apologize. If anything,” the Gray Man said, crouching to retrieve the silver pistol (his leg throbbed; he really did need to get his hands on a pair of tweezers), “I should be saying thank you.”

Adam made a sort of strangled sound. “I _shot_ you.”

The Gray Man switched the safety on and offered the .22 to Adam, who nervously shook his head. The Gray Man tucked the gun in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“I didn’t say it was the most elegant of rescues. But it got the job done. Sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.”

He waited for Adam to nod, acknowledging he’d heard the Gray Man. The Gray Man hoped the teenager would not be too hard on himself over this—guilt really _was_ a useless emotion—but now was not time to press the issue. He needed to get Adam somewhere safe, first and foremost.

He checked his phone. No service. He glanced up. The helicopter was lowering itself in the distance, in the general location of the abandoned brick building. He remembered the large, open field there.

“The rich boy’s sister is landing near the factory. Maura and I agree that you and Lynch should go with her. We will follow in the car.”

Adam’s eyes darted to Gregory’s corpse and quickly away. The Gray Man considered his brother’s body, then decided to leave it where it lay. There wasn’t time for a burial, and besides, his older brother did not deserve one. Legally speaking, Dean Allen had been dead for years, so when the body was discovered (if it was ever discovered), the Gray Man would not be a suspect.

Together, he and Adam began to make their way through the woods towards the factory. They were not entirely out of the woods (literally and figuratively) yet, but with his brother finally gone for good, the Gray Man now felt capable, more solidly himself than he had in… years, really. He supposed he had the teenager beside him to thank for that.

*

“I really hope you’re happy when we all get killed because of you,” Declan spat, storming along in Ronan’s wake, his head sweeping from side-to-side so frequently he looked like he was having some sort of epileptic episode.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Ronan grated back. “So either shut up or _fuck off_.”

Beside Ronan, Gansey—immune to the hostility between the Lynch brothers—shook his head but remained quiet. Gansey wasn’t happy that Ronan was returning to the situation he’d just narrowly escaped either, but all it had taken was an earnest look from Ronan and a quiet, “I can’t leave Adam behind,” and Gansey had sighed and nodded.

Ronan knew he could count on Gansey. Solid, dependable, ride-or-die Gansey. God, Ronan had missed him.

Declan, on the other hand, had thrown an absolute hissy fit, and the brothers had fought, right there under Piper’s helicopter. The fight only ended with Gansey’s proposed compromise (shouted over the whir of the helicopter blades) that they would all go back for Adam together if Declan could bring his shotgun. Declan had raced off to his car and returned moments later with the gun and a fierce scowl that Ronan had returned with relish.

Ronan hadn’t asked to carry the shotgun; he and Declan both knew (though Ronan would never admit it out loud), thanks to endless rounds of paintball played at the Barns, that Declan was the better shot.

After the helicopter moved off, the woods became weirdly quiet. Ronan didn’t want to think too hard about what that could mean. Gray’s one redeeming quality was that he cared about Adam; he wouldn’t let Adam get hurt. Or so Ronan fervently prayed.

Ronan reached a boulder he recognized and stopped, trying to remember the direction he’d come from to escape Gray’s brother. He caught movement from the corner of his eye. 

Declan saw the moving figures between the trees, too. He crouched behind the boulder and Ronan did the same, dragging an oblivious Gansey with him.

“Did you see who it was?” Declan whispered.

“Who what was?” Gansey asked, looking around and stepping on a stick that cracked, loudly.

Declan and Ronan shot him identical looks of annoyance and Gansey grimaced. The three of them crouched in silence for a moment longer, and Ronan heard a crunching of leaves that moved steadily closer. Declan’s grip on the shotgun was white-knuckled.

Distant bits of conversation drifted their way.

_“…where it landed?”_

_“I imagine behind the factory… only place open enough to…”_

Ronan’s released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He stepped out from behind the rock (“What the hell are you-? _”_ Declan hissed) to meet Adam and Gray.

Adam looked deathly pale and shaken. Gray was blank-faced as usual, despite the blood soaking his left pant leg. Ronan hoped he was in pain.

He half-wanted to shout the truth about the hitman—let Declan feel some of the fury Ronan had raging inside him—but with both Declan and Gray armed, there were just too many important people who could get caught in the resulting crossfire.

With difficulty, Ronan swallowed down the furious swirl of emotion that had flared at the sight of the hitman. He tried to catch Adam’s eye, to check in with him, but the other teenager was staring into the middle distance, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Where’s your brother?” Ronan shot at Gray as Declan and Gansey joined him.

“He’s been dealt with,” Gray responded, which Ronan took to mean Gray had killed him. That must be why Adam looked so shell-shocked.

“Oh, dear,” Gansey said faintly behind him. 

“Why aren’t you three at the helicopter?” Gray asked.

“It’s Piper,” Ronan said shortly.

“I’m not sure where my sister is,” Gansey added. “She’s still on her way, I’m sure, but I haven’t been able to get phone service to verify.”

“What about Blue and her mom? And Persephone?” Adam asked, finally seeming to notice Ronan and the others.

“They’re waiting for us,” Declan said tersely. “We need to go.” No one argued with him.

Gray led the way through the woods, limping almost imperceptibly. Ronan walked beside Adam as Gansey fell into step on Ronan’s other side. Declan trailed behind them all, his eyes darting around the surrounding woods incessantly. His grip on the shotgun had not loosened in the slightest.

In a low, monotone voice, Adam briefly explained everything Ronan had missed since being thrown in the trunk of a car. When he got to the part about scrying with Maura and Persephone as his anchors, he skillfully avoided mentioning Ronan’s dream, instead making it sound like he had merely seen a vision. Ronan glanced sideways at Gansey, but Gansey seemed unaware of any omission in Adam’s description.

Then, Ronan’s face warmed with embarrassment as he remembered how soft he’d been with dream Adam—no, _real_ Adam. _Jesus_.

Everything had just felt so fucking pointless in the moment he’d met Adam in Cabeswater. Learning who was responsible for Niall Lynch’s murder hadn’t brought any sense of peace. His dad was still dead, and no amount of anger would bring him back. Ronan thought Cabeswater had provided a dreamed version of Adam to comfort Ronan—and with Ronan’s arms wrapped around Adam’s slender torso and his forehead resting on Adam’s bony shoulder—Ronan _had_ felt comforted. 

Now, Adam seemed to be avoiding Ronan’s eye. Did Adam think Ronan was weak? After everything they’d been through together—no way. It was impossible to tell what the other teen was thinking, though.

“… and Maura read the cards and said Mr. Gray had gone to get you back. So I followed him. And- well. Here we are.” Adam was acting oddly formal, flattening his Henrietta accent and holding himself almost at a distance, and Ronan couldn’t figure out if it was because Adam felt weird about their exchange in Cabeswater or because he was uncomfortable being around Gansey and Declan, or what.

Gansey was shaking his head in awe as Adam finished his tale. “Have you always been psychic?” he asked. “Or was it a skill you developed over time? I’m not quite sure how it works.”

Adam seemed to carefully consider his answer. “To be honest, I still don’t know how it works either. But. Yes. I’ve always been psychic.”

“That’s amazing, though.”

Adam looked thrown, then possibly pleased by the compliment. “I don’t know. It’s caused a lot of problems for me.”

“Yes,” Gansey mused. “Being kidnapped would put a damper on one’s summer plans.”

The walked in silence for a few moments before Gansey said, “Oh- by the way, Adam. When we get back to Henrietta, I was wondering if you would mind looking at my car? She’s making a strange noise, and Blue said you worked at Boyd’s Autobody.”

“I didn’t know you were a mechanic.”

Ronan didn’t mean for the words to come out as accusing as they did. It was just that the sudden idea of Adam as a mechanic—wearing a pair of coveralls, smelling of gasoline, wiping grease-stained knuckles with a rag while his studious blue eyes inspected the engine of the BMW—was giving Ronan heart palpitations. His face felt hot again, though there was no way Adam could possibly know what he was thinking.

Unless Adam could now read minds, just like he’d apparently gained the ability to see the future. Ronan set his jaw and tried to think of something else. Like the fact that Declan would probably freak the fuck out if he knew what this particular mental image was doing to Ronan.

That was enough to sober Ronan up, and belatedly, his gut twisted and shame washed over him.

He wrenched his attention back to the present.

“Sure. No problem,” Adam was saying to Gansey.

“I appreciate it. How long have you worked at Boyd’s?”

“Since March. I got the job to save up for…“ Adam trailed off.

“Aglionby?” Ronan grunted without thinking.

Gansey made a noise of excitement. “Blue didn’t say you were going to Aglionby, Adam.”

Adam’s expression had turned wooden. “Oh, I’m not sure I-”

“But this is wonderful! We can help each other catch up on our missed work. I called Headmaster Child to explain why Declan and I were absent the first week of classes. He was very understanding.”

Gansey continued in this vein for a while, grilling Adam on which courses he planned to take and giving him all sorts of scholastic advice that seemed to be putting Adam on edge.

“Hang on,” Ronan said, interrupting Gansey. “Why the hell did you guys miss school?”

Ronan glanced at Declan, who wasn’t quick enough to rearrange his features. For a moment, his brother’s expression was dark, dark in a way that belied utter, violent devastation. Ronan knew that look, had seen it enough times in the mirror following his dad’s death. He’d never seen it on Declan before.

Gansey's voice was quiet. “You were missing, Ronan. School was the last thing on our mind.”

Ronan tore his gaze away from his brother. “Who the hell was taking notes for me, then?” he demanded in mock indignation.

“Oh, as if you care,” Gansey said, and Ronan smirked. “Henry Cheng is collecting our homework, if you must know. Not that I expect you to bother with it, but _I_ care about my grades, and I’m sure Adam does as well.”

He fell silent as they exited the tree line and emerged onto the gravel road where Declan’s Volvo SUV (sporting a bullet-sized hole in its cracked windshield) and a beat-up blue sedan were waiting. A short, teenaged girl with dark, spiky hair and artfully torn overalls rushed to meet them. This must be _not-my-girlfriend_ Blue. Ronan felt a rush of irrational mistrust towards her.

Leaning on the hood of the sedan were two women. If the dark-haired hippie woman was Blue’s mom, then the witchy-looking blond woman must be Persephone. Ronan eyed them mistrustfully, as well.

Maura’s eyes widened at the sight of Gray’s bloody leg. He said something that Ronan didn’t catch and she nodded, opening the front door of the sedan and helping him sit.

“Persephone says there’s a white van filled with negative energy coming our way,” Blue announced in a rush. “We need to try to beat it out of here. Hi. You must be Ronan.”

Ronan didn’t respond. Blue put her hands on her hips and glanced between Ronan and Adam—who was staring off into the woods, expression distant again. Blue set her jaw and met Ronan’s gaze evenly and narrowed her eyes. Good. So long as they were both clear where they stood.

“’Negative energy?’” Declan’s tone was polite but incredulous.

The blond woman—Persephone—held up a tarot card in response, as though that explained anything.

“All right. You two come with me,” Declan said, pulling open the driver’s door of his tan SUV.

The authority in his brother’s tone chafed but Ronan dutifully threw himself into the leather backseat, then turned to see why Gansey wasn’t climbing in after him.

“-sure you don’t want to drive with us?” Gansey was asking Blue hopefully, but she shook her head.

“Mom wants me with her. I told her she’s being grossly parental.”

“Well, all right then, be safe.”

Gansey patted Blue awkwardly on the shoulder, his expression one of concern mixed with pure adoration. Blue rolled her eyes, but her tone was soft when she responded, “You, too.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. As if Ronan hadn’t dealt with enough shit lately, his best friend had gone and developed feelings for an angry midget. Still, he was savagely pleased that it was Ganesy, and not Adam, who seemed to be the recipient of this girl’s affection. He didn’t let himself analyze the implications of that feeling.

“Come on, Gansey,” Ronan called out, irritated.

Adam exchanged a few words with Gray before climbing into the passenger seat of Declan’s SUV, shutting the door carefully and looking at Ronan, his eyes dull and tired.

“We can’t go back for Mr. Gray’s car,” Adam said as Gansey settled himself next to Ronan and Declan started up the SUV. “Maura’s going to fix Mr. Gray up as best she can once we’re somewhere safe.”

Ronan did not give a flying fuck about Gray’s injury or his car, but he jerked his head to let Adam know he’d heard him. Adam turned away and mechanically buckled his seatbelt.

They set off, Gray following in the blue sedan that carried Maura in the front seat and Blue and Persephone in the back. Ronan rolled down the window and leaned outside to search the skies behind them, but he didn’t see any sign of Piper.

“She must have landed at the factory,” Adam said. “She’s either coming for us on foot, or… maybe she’ll follow in the helicopter.”

“Let me drive,” Ronan demanded, kicking Declan’s seat in front of him.

“I’m going to assume that’s a joke.”

“I let you carry the gun.”

“It’s _my_ shotgun, _my_ car.”

Good to know that Declan hadn’t become any less of an asshole during Ronan’s absence.

Ronan scooted forward and leaned between the front seats. “If Piper Greenmantle comes after us in her fucking helicopter, believe me, I’m the one you’re gonna want behind the wheel.”

Declan wasn’t as much of a granny driver as, say, Gansey, but he did have the annoying habit of following most traffic laws. They turned a corner that would bring them from the factory’s long, gravel driveway to the quiet country lane that meant freedom.

In front of them, a white van was parked diagonally, blocking their exit. Trees hemmed them in on either side. They were trapped.

Declan swore vehemently as adrenaline shot through Ronan. Gansey gasped and Adam’s expression turned to stone.

“Do you know them?” Adam asked Ronan quietly. Ronan nodded, vicious anger churning in his gut. The front seat passenger was a stranger, but he recognized the van’s driver as the scrawny man who had helped kidnap him from the Barns—was it only a week ago?

“Switch,” Ronan demanded, and for once in his life Declan listened, wordlessly throwing the vehicle into park and grabbing the shotgun beside him before kicking open the driver’s side door.

Ronan leapt over the center divide and into the driver’s seat, throwing the car into reverse just as his brother reached the backseat. Declan slammed the car door, racked the shotgun, and pointed it out the open window at the van.

The van started to move.

Behind them, Gray must have sensed Ronan and Declan’s unspoken plan because the blue sedan rocketed backwards. Ronan floored it, twisting and bracing his hand on Adam’s headrest, driving backwards along the gravel road with the speed and agility of a precision stunt driver. Gansey clutched at his seatbelt as he was jostled from side to side, his eyes the size of dinner plates as the van barreled towards them.

“TURN LEFT!” Declan shouted, and Ronan whipped the wheel to the left, directing the SUV violently into a narrow gap in the trees along the side of the road and allowing Declan a clear line of sight.

**_BANG_ **

The passenger side window of the other vehicle exploded in a shower of glass as Declan absorbed the shotgun’s recoil against his shoulder with a grunt. The industrial van—unable to stop as quickly as the SUV—skidded to a halt with a spray of gravel as two of its side wheels lifted off the ground and Ronan thought it was going to tip over—

But then it crashed back to the ground on all four tires, rocking. Gray was already out of the blue sedan and firing his handgun. The front two tires of the van blew out and the van tilted forward as though kneeling.

The two men—each toting handguns of their own—leapt from the van and sprinted behind it for a safer vantage point. One was the skinny driver Ronan knew. The other was covered in tattoos and had the rangy, underfed look of a chronic drug user (Ronan had hung around with Kavinsky enough to know the look).

Ronan considered their options, his heart racing. He could squeeze the SUV past the van and (provided none of them got shot on their way past) theoretically get them out of here. The blue car was trapped, though. But everyone he cared about was in this SUV. Should he just go? Leave Gray and Blue and the psychics behind? Was he really that sort of person?

Adam’s hand—cool and firm—covered his where it was clenched around the stick shift, stilling him.

“Wait,” Adam said quietly, his gaze distant.

But not distant in the shell-shocked way it’d been for the past thirty minutes.

Distant in the way that told Ronan he was scrying.

Ronan waited, torn between relief at having had this terrible decision effectively made for him and deep concern that Adam was about to blind himself because he was staring _directly into the fucking sun_.

“What are you doing?” Declan shouted.

“Everyone get out,” Adam said, his eyes snapping back to the present with alacrity. “ _Now._ ”

Ronan didn’t ask questions. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and Gansey fumbled with his seatbelt and obediently exited the car as Ronan killed the engine and leaped from the vehicle.

Ronan yanked open Declan’s door and grabbed his brother’s shirt collar, dragging him from the SUV.

“ _What the fuck Ronan_ -“

From his crouched position behind the suburban, Adam was motioning wildly but silently to Gray who obediently backed away from the white van.

Declan shoved Ronan away from him, practically spitting with rage. “ _Why aren’t we-“_

Machine gun fire erupted from nowhere. Declan practically tackled Ronan to the ground and they both army crawled behind the SUV, where Gansey was pressing both hands to his ears and Adam was looking around frantically to see if the occupants of the other car were alright.

The two men behind the van began firing at someone Ronan couldn’t see on the gravel road. More machine gun fire erupted, and the van’s windshield shattered.

There was a brief respite in the gunfire, and Ronan saw that Gray was guiding Maura, Blue and Persephone to the temporary safety of the forest. As quietly as possible, the four teenaged boys followed suit, scrambling about thirty feet up a steep, wooded incline and meeting with the rest of the group at the top.

Gray and Maura lay flat on their stomachs at the edge of the precipice that overlooked the gravel road. Maura was holding the silver pistol in front of her, her expression pinched and deadly serious. It was a very incongruous look for a woman wearing dirt-stained bell-bottoms and a paisley headscarf.

“Stay behind us, Blue,” Maura commanded and Blue obediently took a few steps backwards.

Gansey practically collapsed into Blue’s arms and she murmured something reassuring into his chest. The sight didn’t even piss Ronan off. 

They had a narrow view of the white van through the trees below them.

“They followed Piper,” Adam told them all breathlessly, crouching down besides Persephone, who was perched on a rock a few feet behind Maura and Gray. 

_Who's 'they'?_ Ronan was about to ask when two burly men wearing dark t-shirts entered their line of vision beneath them. Both carried machine guns. Behind them, a luxury sedan drove forward slowly, gravel crunching beneath its wheels. The vehicle and the men came to a halt about twenty yards from the van.

Ronan recognized the suited figure who emerged from the sleek dark vehicle: It was one of Greenmantle’s party guests, the hunched old man with the ashy markings on his face. He was leaning on the walking stick Ronan had dreamed from him.

Declan tensed noticeably beside Ronan.

“What?” Ronan demanded, quietly.

“He did business with dad,” Declan muttered back, his lips barely moving. “Igor Roriksen.” He raised his sleeve and hastily wiped at the sweat beading on his forehead, wincing as he jostled the bandage loosely taped there.

Ronan had no idea how his brother knew this, but there was no time to wonder because Igor was calling out to the two men from the van in a thick eastern European accent: “Give us the Greywarren and we will leave you in peace.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Greenmantle!” the scrawny van driver shouted back.

“Colin Greenmantle is dead.”

“Not him, the wife!”

One of the bodyguards disappeared into the tree line to inspect Declan’s empty Volvo.

“I will take the Greywarren by force if I must.”

“We don’t have him!”

Igor jerked his head. One of his bodyguards lifted his machine gun and fired on the two men with an indiscriminate spray of bullets. The two pistol-waving men returned fire from behind the van; one of the bullets must have found its target because the bodyguard yelled in pain.

Blue and Gansey were still clutching each other. Declan racked the shotgun and flattened himself next to Gray. Their one saving grace, Ronan decided, was that this gunfight didn’t involve them yet. But eventually, one of these two warring sides would come out victorious, and then they’d begin searching the woods for Ronan.

“This is the best vantage point,” Gray said to Declan. “We’ll be able to hold anyone off until we run out of bullets.”

“I’ve only got three shots left,” Declan told him.

Adam’s voice was quiet but closer than Ronan expected. “I need to fix the line so you can dream.”

Ronan twisted and looked over his shoulder. Adam was crouched right behind him; Ronan hadn’t even heard him approach. Behind them, Persephone was absently picking dead leaves from her hair.

“What?”

Adam tilted his head, expression pensive. “If I fix the line… make it so you can access more energy… could you dream something that would take all of them out?”

Weirdly, Adam’s calmness was making Ronan’s panic spike. “I don’t know, man, I can’t always control it-”

“I know,” Adam said. “But I think… I _sense_ it’s the only way. We won’t be able to shoot our way out of this.” 

Something caught Adam's attention and Ronan followed his gaze to see a new pair of dark vehicles turning onto the gravel road before they disappeared from view behind the trees. Great. More maniacs here to fight over the right to kidnap Ronan. At least their infighting would keep them distracted. For now.

“And you _can_ control it,” Adam said. “I trust you.” He hesitated. “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.” Ronan said immediately, and it was the truth. “Yeah, I do.”

“Are you ready, Adam?” Persephone asked, standing. Adam followed suit.

“Where are you going?” Ronan demanded.

“To fix the line,” Adam said.

“Yeah, I got that. But _where_?”

Adam’s brow furrowed and he glanced at Persephone, as though asking for confirmation. Then, he pointed. Ronan could just make out the roof of the factory and the gnarled branches of the enormous, rotting tree poking through it.

Ronan started to get to his feet as well. Declan yanked him back down by the wrist. “ _Absolutely_ not.”

“He’s right. You don’t need to come with me.”

Frustration spiked and Ronan opened his mouth to snarl a protest.

“I think,” Persephone said in a high, small voice. “That you would be in a great deal of danger if you were to join us, Ronan.”

“Oh, but it’s fine if _he’s_ in danger?” Ronan snapped, jerking his head at Adam.

“I’m talking about the spiritual danger, not the physical.”

Ronan stared, stymied and unable to think of an angry retort fast enough.

Adam looked at his watch. “At exactly 10:15, meet me in Cabeswater.”

Ronan jutted his head in a reluctant nod and watched as Adam and Persephone began to carefully make their way down the steep incline in the direction of the factory. Declan tossed Ronan his phone, his eyes never leaving the violent scene below them. Ronan heard shouts from the distance; Igor and his bodyguards must have realized they had company.

Ronan propped himself up on both his elbows, eyes glued to Declan’s phone screen.

It was 9:42. Which meant he had thirty-three minutes to figure out what the hell he could possibly dream to get them all out of this shit-show alive.

*

The events of the past hour had left Adam completely numb.

His own willingness to kill another human (even one as terrible and deserving as Mr. Gray’s brother) had shaken him to his core. Mr. Gray had thankfully been blocking Adam’s view when he’d killed his brother himself, but Adam couldn’t get the weighty _thump_ of the older man’s body hitting the forest floor out of his head.

That all wasn’t the worst of it, though.

The moment Adam realized he’d accidentally shot Mr. Gray—the very person he’d been trying to help—had been, quite possibly, the worst moment of Adam’s life.

Mr. Gray said he wasn’t angry, but Adam still couldn’t stop the waves of guilt crashing relentlessly over him. No matter how good his intentions, he should never have fired a weapon he didn't know how to aim. Mr. Gray had been nothing but fair--even kind--to Adam, and Adam had repaid the man by almost killing him. Mr. Gray may have forgiven him, but Adam knew he would never forgive himself.

That was when the numbness had started, his body and mind too overwhelmed to process the overload of sensory and emotional input. He’d lost all feeling in his hands, and he’d felt disproportionally cold—distantly, he wondered if he was in shock.

He’d tried to act normally, but the reality was he was barely holding it together.

And then, _then_ , as if all that wasn’t enough: the forest had started to speak to him.

Not using words. Instead, there had been a quiet, persistent hum emanating from the muted maple trees and the dry, cracked earth beneath him, the energy of the ley line taking on a more active role in communicating in a way that Adam had never experienced before. It was as though Adam’s shock had effectively silenced his mind and body, leaving only his spiritual self in its wake.

So, the forest had begun to speak, and Adam had begun to listen.

The story the trees told him was not very long. It went like this:

The ley line had been broken for a long, long time.

The ley line needed to be fixed.

The ley line needed a Magician.

An image of a tree reaching skyward, its branches gnarled and crooked like a clawed hand, had flashed across his mind. He’d recognized the tree; it was the same tree currently growing through the roof of the abandoned factory. He hadn’t seen the trunk of it when he’d been inside the left wing of the building, so it must be rooted elsewhere. He needed to find it.

That was where he and Persephone were headed now.

“You saw the tree?” He asked Persephone, just to clarify, and she nodded.

“That is where the energy seems to be trapped, yes." She got caught up in a brief battle with a prickly thorn bush that she eventually won, though the hem of her dress was torn in the process.

“What are we supposed to do when we get there?” Adam asked.

“I suppose you’ll have to ask the forest- the ley line. Well, here, they’re the same thing, aren’t they?”

There was so much he didn’t know, so much he didn’t understand. How could a _forest_ have independent thought? Was the energy of the ley line sentient?

“Those questions are are valid, but not very important.”

Adam almost stopped walking. “Are you reading my mind?”

“No,” Persephone said. “More like... picking up on your frequency.” Adam was deeply unnerved, and Persephone must have sensed it because she added, “If you quiet your mind, Adam, you’ll find you can often pick up on the frequency of others. I believe those who are non-spiritualists call it intuition.”

Adam chewed on that idea as the enormous factory came into view before them. Rotting, twisted branches poked through the right side of the roof and through several broken windows. From this vantage point, Adam could see that a section of one of the brick walls had collapsed.

A dark helicopter sat in the large field to the left of the building. Two distant figures moved around next to it: Piper and Hal. Adam felt a twinge of fear, though he and Persephone were effectively hidden by the forest at the moment.

Gray’s car sat abandoned in the lot. He and Persephone continued past it until the helicopter was out of view. Then, they quickly exited the forest and approached the lowest point of the crumbling brick wall. Adam clambered over first and helped Persephone, who somehow made the entire endeavor look graceful.

Saplings and bushes sprouted up through cracks in the concrete floor beneath them. Tired tree branches emerged from high windows to their left and sagged overhead. It was ominously quiet. The pair of psychics wordlessly made their way to an opening in the concrete wall opposite them.

A bird flew over them, and Adam paused to watch its trajectory. There was nothing inherently strange about the bird—it was a robin—but Adam nonetheless felt a bizarre, tickling sensation at the back of his mind. The bird landed on one of the branches and looked down at them, oddly still as they picked their way carefully though moss-covered machinery and thorny bushes to the open doorway.

Adam became aware of a pulsating thrum surrounding them, so visceral it was almost audible. Like a heartbeat... the heart beat of the ley line. His own heart skipped to match the steady rhythm and he felt a thrill of… fear? No. Expectation.

He was very glad he was not alone in this strange place.

They reached the doorway, and the sight inside the cavernous industrial room beyond it was unlike anything Adam had ever seen.

Creeping brown vines crawled up brick walls like veins and the cement floor was a cratered ruin of twisted roots. What demanded his attention, however, was the massive, gnarled tree trunk directly in the center of the room.

If he wasn’t looking directly at it, he would have said the tree’s existence was impossible. It had to be hundreds of years old—that was the only way to explain its incredible size—but logically, Adam knew the factory couldn’t be old enough for that.

The tree looked sickly; large pieces of dark bark littered the ground around them and for a terrifying moment Adam’s eye perceived movement and thought the roots themselves were shifting. Then he realized the roots were covered with thousands and thousands of termites that scuttled like waves across a shoreline. Limp, browning leaves clung desperately to a few of the tree’s utmost branches, but for the most part, the tree was bare and skeletal.

The sensation of the heartbeat was stronger than ever—borderline unbearable. Persephone must have felt similarly because she was rubbing absently at her chest, her brow knitted with either concern or concentration.

She unearthed the draw-string bag from her purse that Adam now knew held her tarot cards and, to his surprise, offered it to him.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m never entirely sure,” Persephone said with a small smile. “You learn to embrace the uncertainty.”

Adam found her admission oddly soothing. He took the bag and pulled out the cards. They seemed to quiver in anticipation beneath his fingers. He found a cracked stretch of bare concrete and kneeled, the tree’s branches stretching ominously above them.

Persephone sat cross-legged in front of him as he spread the cards out, face-down.

Adam took a deep, fortifying breath. “How do we fix the ley line?” he asked.

The psychic books he’d read while at the Greenmantles’ all stated that asking a clear question was the only way to get a clear answer from the cards, and it seemed Persephone did not disagree because she remained silent, watching him with interest.

Adam reached out his hand.

Usually, one (or sometimes two) cards would vibrate with warmth beneath his fingers. But as his hand floated over the deck, he felt a rush of scalding energy unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Without being fully conscious of it, Adam was flipping one-two-three- _four_ cards, thoughts and images and _meaning_ rushing across his minds eye with an almost frenzied fervor.

The Tower-heat-smoke-Eight of Wands-ash-destruction-Temperance-balance-the line restored-Death-a phoenix: stark and beautiful, rising from the ashes, rebirth, a new beginning—he flipped a fifth card—

His vision went black and the decaying tree rose before him and burst into dark flames, a strangely bright silhouette against the even darker void that served as its backdrop.

And here in this endless, blank space, vibrating with raw, life-giving energy that obliterated any other thought, any sense of self, the psychic realized he could not remember his own name. He was simply—

The Magician.

 _Welcome,_ the ley line hummed. _We’ve been waiting for you._

He no longer had a body; he was beyond such material objects. The ley line’s energy blanketed the psychic like a physical force and he sank into its warm embrace.

 _Stay, Magician,_ the forest pleaded. _Stay now, stay forever…_

The forest- the ley line (they were indistinguishable in this holy space)- was offering him a choice.

The psychic had been given so few choices in his life.

_You are unlike others… stay… leave the world of human concern behind._

And the Magician saw it clearly in his mind’s eye: his body never decaying, his spirit strengthening here for all of eternity, living in perfect harmony with the beautiful, savage energy pulsing through him. An existence absent of hurt and pain, he would wield an enormous amount of control, possess the power to rip to shreds anyone who would dare threaten him, and he would never, _ever_ be at the mercy of anyone else’s violent whims again, and wasn’t that something he’d always yearned for—?

Sensory memory interrupted this line of thought: warm, strong arms wrapped around him; a hand holding his, anchoring him; steady, gentle fingers running through his hair—all telling him without words that he mattered, that there were good people left in the world, and maybe, if the Magician tried, he could be one of them—

It was a different kind of magic than what the forest was offering him. But it _was_ magic, all the same.

 _No,_ the Magician told the trees. And by denying the ley line, he remembered himself.

Adam.

He was Adam Parrish.

And he—Adam—wanted to live amongst and alongside other people, because despite the pain, despite the uncertainty of his future, he desired for human connection.

And then he remembered.

There were humans, people he cared about and people he didn’t know but could perhaps one day grow to care about, who _needed_ him, right this very minute. Who were depending on him.

 _I have to go back,_ he told the ley line, and the energy around his spirit tightened its grip protectively.

 _Love is a sacrifice,_ the forest told him.

 _I know,_ Adam thought, his heart breaking open. _I choose it anyway._

And the forest accepted his decision— even if it did not understand it—and released him.

“Adam. _Adam._ ”

A woman’s voice—Adam knew this voice, though he could not put a name to it—pierced through his vision, and Adam trusted the voice with no name, following it back through the wide path of the spirit road—the ley line—the corpse road—so many human descriptors for such an indefinable force—and returned to his body.

Adam opened his eyes.

He could not remember how to speak for a long, long moment. Bursts of energy scuttled up and down his arms and burned in his core as though trying to reshape him from the inside out.

Persephone waited patiently, her hands folded neatly on her lap, even as her hair started to rise with the static electricity-like force emanating from Adam. Her dark eyes were wide and unblinking.

“We have to burn the tree so it can regrow,” Adam said, finally. He did not mention the choice the ley line had given him. Just thinking of it made his head spin. “We could use your candle.”

Persephone nodded. “It would be polite for you to ask the tree, first.”

As though in a trance, Adam stood and approached the trunk of the tree that towered over him. Insects fled from his feet in waves. He paid them no mind.

Now that he was so attuned to the life-giving energy coursing around and through him, he could feel how muted this tree’s energy was, how close to dying it was. He placed he hand against the peeling, brittle bark. Asked its permission. Received it.

Persephone dug through her bag and lit the wick of the large, cylindrical candle they’d used to scry earlier that morning. Adam accepted the candle from her and pressed the flame to the trunk. The bark caught immediately. He knelt, lighting the visible roots that jutted through the cracked cement beneath him, and they, too, caught alight, the fire spreading over the surface of the withered husk of the tree with supernatural speed, crackling and popping loudly. Orange embers rained down around them.

He stepped back until his back hit the brick wall. He glanced at his watch. He had five minutes before he needed to meet Ronan in Cabeswater.

The tree seemed to groan in simultaneous pain and relief as the bark on its trunk blackened and curled. Adam understood. It was painful to be destroyed, but it was sometimes a necessary step towards being made new.

“I believe I need to distract the two individuals from the helicopter now,” Persephone said. “So they do not disturb you. You’ll need to scry alone. Let the tree be your anchor.”

“Be careful,” Adam said.

“I’ll be quite all right. It’s not my time.”

Did that mean Persephone knew when she would die? Could _Adam_ learn when he was going to die, too? Was that information he would even want? With his newfound abilities compounding at such an alarming rate, Adam wasn’t sure where the line was. If a line even existed.

“Focus on the task at hand,” Persephone said with a small smile. She turned and slipped from the building.

Adam considered following her as the room slowly filled with smoke—but, no. This was where the ley line’s energy would be strongest, once the tree was truly dead. Ronan would need a conduit.

Adam slowly sank to his knees. Despite the incredible heat and the flames that had now spread to the dead vines on the walls, he wasn’t afraid. Surely the ley line wouldn’t allow any harm to come to its Magician.

He stared into the greedy, raging inferno that now engulfed the tree before him and scried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BE HONEST who remembered Gray had the necklace in his pocket?? Heh heh.  
> I made a moodboard for this chapter [which can be viewed/reblogged here](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/post/620367443635912704/chapter-9-of-my-raven-cycle-fanfic-the)
> 
> Oh and yes the chapter count has gone up AGAIN. Because I only covered half of what I was hoping to in this chapter. Don't bother being disappointed in me, you should be used to this by now.
> 
> Real talk, it's a wild time in the world at the moment and I've greatly enjoyed the mental escape writing this fic has offered me. It's important to take a lil break every once in a while. Love you guys xx


	10. ten

Ronan tried to concentrate on the task at hand ( _Dream something to save us all… more night horrors? Bullet-proof vests? A fucking bomb?)_ but that was proving difficult with the furious gunfight inching ever closer to the hilltop where they’d had no choice but to make their stand.

One of Igor’s henchmen had spotted them a few minutes earlier. Gray had shot the man before he’d had the chance to raise his weapon in their direction, but it unfortunately had alerted the others in the area to their presence.

The two newest cars had arrived carrying more antique collectors and hired guns, and an argument had broken out amongst the three or four factions that new wrestled for control below. Ronan’s gut churned anxiously. If Gansey got hurt because these maniacs were obsessed with finding the Greywarren, Ronan would never be able to live with himself.

“Look!” Blue said in a stage-whisper, pointing.

Smoke was rising from the roof of the factory; Ronan hoped setting the building on fire had been part of Adam and Persephone’s plan. He glanced at the clock on Declan's phone, trying to quell his panic. Two minutes.

“Mr. Gray!” Maura called warningly, aiming her small, silver pistol at a man who was trying to stealthily make his way up the left side of their hill.

“You’ve got him?” Gray asked, tracking another shadowy figure through the trees with his own handgun.

“Yeah, I see him,” Declan responded, shifting on his stomach and holding the man in the sights of his hunting rile. He fired—missed, racked the shotgun and fired again—and the man ducked and yelled, scrambling behind a tree.

“Take the shot,” Declan muttered. Ronan looked at him quizzically and Declan shook his head, as though impatient with himself. “It’s the first thing Persephone ever said to me. ‘Take the shot.’”

“Take what shot?”

“The one I just took? Hell if I know,” Declan said. “Fucking psychics. Think it’d kill them to be more specific.” He raised his voice to call out to Gray: “Three o’clock.”

Gray swung his gun to their right and took out another intruder from his better vantage point.

It was a little unnerving how well Gray and Declan were working together. How comfortable Declan was with all the gunfire and intrigue and evil antique dealers and henchmen in general, actually.

Ronan remembered the jealousy he’d felt when, as a kid, his dad would bring Declan on his business trips. How unenthusiastic Declan had been to be invited along. Ronan had always assumed his older brother spent those trips swimming in hotel pools and eating in nice restaurants. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Gray fired again, sending the scrawny driver of the white van running. “I’m out,” he said calmly, and switched weapons with Maura. He checked the chamber of the smaller pistol. His expression tightened, then smoothed again. Ronan guessed that there weren’t many bullets left in that gun, either.

“I’ve got one round left,” Declan informed him.

“I’m going to meet Adam,” Ronan said, loud enough for Declan to hear him over the machine gun fire that had started up again below.

“How the hell are you supposed to fall asleep with all this going on?” Declan demanded. 

Ronan reached into his pocket and unearthed a red dream pill—the last one from the handful Piper had given him at their party. Gray glanced at Ronan over Declan’s head and nodded wordlessly, no doubt thinking of the monsters Ronan could summon. Ronan hoped his night horrors were up to the task of taking out the armed battalion below them. Maybe he could dream them with bullet-proof feathers.

“Be ready. I can’t guarantee that whatever I dream up will be safe,” Ronan grated out.

Declan nodded, his expression grim. Declan knew better than anyone what sort of dangerous creations Ronan was capable of dreaming up—although, Ronan belatedly realized, his brother didn’t know exactly how much bigger and more powerful Ronan’s dreams had become in recent months.

“Ronan…?”

Ronan glanced behind him. Gansey was staring at him, bewildered. He must have overheard them.

Ronan swallowed thickly. He thought about what a terrible friend he’d been to Gansey in the months leading up to his kidnapping. The drinking, the street racing, the bloody mishap with the night horrors that had left Ronan bleeding and hospitalized while Gansey scrambled to pick up all the pieces...

“Thanks for never giving up on me,” he told Gansey, and he hated the surprise that flashed across his best friend’s face. “I’m sorry I never told you the truth about me. I’ll explain everything when I wake up.”

Ronan wanted to say more, but there wasn’t time, and at least, if this all went sideways… at least Gansey knew.

And then Ronan closed his eyes, threw the pill into his mouth, and was slammed into a dream.

He opened his eyes in Cabeswater. Dark rain clouds were gathered overhead and the air was sticky and filled with the sort of static electric hum that foretold a thunderstorm. Ronan looked around, unnerved by the creepy stillness of the forest.

Adam stood in the middle of a small clearing, his back to Ronan.

Ronan walked towards the psychic, the hair on his arms rising, though Adam wasn’t doing anything overtly unusual. He was just standing, his dark hoodie rising and falling ever-so-slightly as he breathed. Fog gathered and swirled around his ankles. The air crackled and popped like logs in a campfire, but there wasn’t any fire in Cabeswater that Ronan could see.

The closer he got to Adam, the more his skin prickled, and Ronan realized that Adam was the _source_ of the static electricity buzzing in the air around them.

Adam’s head slowly swiveled to look at Ronan. It was a very unhuman-like movement. His eyes were too-wide and unblinking, and as Ronan watched, they rolled back in his head—

Ronan did the only thing he could think of and grabbed one of Adam’s hands and squeezed. It was like gripping a live wire. He felt an insistent pulse beneath his palm, like Adam had a heartbeat too powerful for just one human.

Adam’s shoulders relaxed, and he blinked, his eyes flickering momentarily before focusing on Ronan. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s… a lot…”

There was a sort of ethereal quality to Adam’s features (his essence, or aura, or something) that drew Ronan’s attention, heightening the otherworldliness of the deep-set, piercing blue eyes, the delicate curvature of his lips, the serene, knowing expression that pierced through Ronan, setting his insides ablaze.

Adam’s hand in his was shaking with minute convulsions and Ronan grabbed his other hand, suddenly aware that whatever was happening—whatever energy was coursing through the psychic—Adam was in danger of being overwhelmed by it.

Adam must have seen the alarm on Ronan’s face because he gripped Ronan’s hands tightly in return and said, “I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

Cabeswater heaved around them, like it was holding its breath.

“When the tree finishes burning,” Adam said, Henrietta present in every word, “The energy of the line will be restored.”

“I don’t know what to dream,” Ronan admitted.

The corner of Adam’s lips quirked upwards. “Ask the forest.”

It was as good idea as any.

“Cabeswater. I need, like, a powerful weapon,” Ronan called out to Cabeswater.

The trees rustled and whispered in response, using their strange language meant only for their Graywarren.

_Your greatest weapon is the truth..._

“What did they say?” Adam asked.

Ronan repeated Cabeswater’s message and added, “Real fucking helpful.”

Adam’s brow furrowed, and Ronan’s heart sank. If Adam (with his intrinsic, supernatural understanding of the ley line’s power) couldn’t interpret Cabeswater’s directive, then Ronan didn’t have a chance in hell.

Ronan tried to draw on Cabeswater’s energy, but it was still a cold, empty cavern inside of himself. “I can’t create anything,” he said despairingly. “I-“

He stopped. Cabeswater was speaking to him again.

 _You have forgotten who you are,_ the forest whispered, sad rather than accusatory.

Suddenly, Ronan _ached_.

Images flashed in his mind, moments from memories he’d forgotten, memories that were too painful to think about, memories he’d kept buried beneath layers of anger and guilt and darkness—

Ronan was tugging Matthew into a loving headlock, was laughing at a private joke with Gansey, was play-wrestling with Declan, before they’d become enemies, before it had all gone wrong—

 _This is who you really are,_ Cabeswater whispered.

Ronan was joyfully setting off fireworks with Noah, was coaxing a newborn calf to its feet, was nestled in his mother’s warm embrace as she sang a Celtic song he’d forgotten the words to—

_This is who you really are._

Ronan was listening to his father’s nighttime stories in awe, loving his father with all his heart, despite the man’s flaws, flaws that would one day get him killed and tear Ronan apart, but that didn’t matter, because Ronan still loved him, would always love him, because that was what it meant to be Ronan Lynch: to love fiercely, loyally, without reserve—

In so many ways, Ronan had forgotten who he was.

And in other ways, he was still discovering it.

_This is who you really are._

And Ronan was standing before Adam Parrish, his heart thrumming insistently in his chest. He felt no shame, no fear, no guilt—only a quiet surety as he soaked in Adam’s captivating beauty. Emboldened by Cabeswater's magic, he raised a hand to Adam’s face and ran his thumb gently along his cheekbone, telegraphing his movements plainly and giving Adam every opportunity to put a stop to it.

Adam didn’t back away. His blue eyes glistened with some deep, unnamed emotion as he stared back at Ronan, his expression morphing into something equal parts vulnerable and hopeful.

“Adam,” Ronan murmured. And again, with the reverence of a prayer: " _Adam_." 

And then Ronan kissed him.

Above them, the heavens opened and the rain that fell was soft and comforting on Ronan’s shoulders. Adam’s lips were warm and inviting and Adam pressed his free hand to Ronan’s hip, and their kiss deepened, sweet and slow and tentative.

It came to its natural end, and for a moment they stood, millimeters apart, as the rain beat down and energy crackled like a living, breathing thing between them.

Without warning, energy exploded through Adam with the force of a waterfall, slamming Ronan back several steps as heat waves poured from the psychic in every direction. Adam shuddered, his eyes rolling back in his head as his back arched and his feet left the ground—

Ronan lunged forward and threw his arms around Adam’s torso, clutching him to his chest, anchoring the psychic with every fiber of his being as Adam shook uncontrollably. After a few tense moments, Adam responded, wrapping his arms firmly around Ronan’s torso and burying his head in Ronan’s shoulder as his feet found solid ground. The rain pelted down on them with increasing fervor, the wind howling in their ears.

The world and its infinite possibilities opened inside Ronan as the power of the newly aligned ley line cascaded into Cabeswater through Adam.

With this much energy at his disposal, Ronan could dream anything he wanted—he could dream a bomb, a fucking tank, an army of night horrors—but with Adam in his arms and his heart full to bursting as it was—he could not find it in himself to dream such terrors.

He’d seen enough death for a lifetime.

Adam pulled back slightly to rest his forehead on Ronan’s, his hands moving to clutch Ronan’s elbows to steady himself. His eyes were closed.

Around them, Cabeswater shimmered and pulsed, as though there was oil mixed with the rain, distorting the forest like a mirage. The energy was starting to become too much for Ronan, the rain now falling so hard it was painful against his skin.

He could feel it—he was about to wake up, and he still had no idea what to dream.

*

Adam pressed his forehead to Ronan’s and gripped his elbows, allowing Ronan’s energy to ground him as the ley line’s power barreled through him like a freight train. He could still feel the ghost of Ronan’s lips against his, tender and giving, and he basked in the intoxicating, heady sensation of having just been kissed by Ronan Lynch.

As the rain pelted down, drenching him thoroughly and running down his back in rivulets, a jumbled collection of thought fragments and memories shot across his mind’s eye, as though the rain itself had summoned them.

Adam saw himself in the ley line’s dark void: standing, upright and proud and _alone_ as vines snaked their way up his wrists.

Always alone.

Then, people materialized beside him in his minds eye: Ronan, Gray, Blue, Persephone…

A simple truth occurred to Adam. A conclusion he’d never reach on his own, so it could only be from the magic of the forest itself, whispering in his ear:

_This is who you are._

No; that wasn’t possible. He was Adam Parrish, solitary, always and forever, unworthy of their care, their attention, their love...

 _This is who you are_ , the rain insisted, and Adam found that he believed it.

This was a magic Adam didn’t understand, but he trusted it, because he trusted Ronan, and Ronan—knowingly or not—had summoned this rain and imbued it with whatever strange, powerful magic that had led him to kiss Adam.

“The rain,” he said to Ronan, shivering as his soaked sweatshirt clung to him. “Take it with you.”

“Okay,” Ronan said, his voice strained. “I’m- I have to wake up now.”

Ronan jerked and Adam was suddenly holding nothing but air and water. He tilted his head back as the rain pelted down, painful and insistent. Lightning streaked across the sky and Cabeswater shifted violently, caught in the throws of an earthquake. Adam stumbled and barely caught himself. It was time to go.

He returned to his body where it knelt on the cracked, concrete factory floor. He was completely dry but for the tears streaming down his face; the result of a quiet joy too big for words.

Above and around him, the fire raged, savage and hungry as it consumed everything in its path. The heat was incredible and smoke immediately stung his throat. The tree was blackened and smoldering and seemed to be folding in on itself. As Adam watched, a section of the roof collapsed onto the tree’s topmost branches with a crash. Adam coughed violently and scooted backwards, pressing his back to the brick wall.

The ley line was still coursing through him. Distantly, he knew his human body needed air, couldn’t withstand this heat… but the ley line was more concerned with its newfound freedom, and dizzy and disoriented and overjoyed as he was, Adam was having trouble prioritizing his human needs above the forest’s. 

Outside, even though there previously hadn’t been a cloud in the sky, thunder cracked deafeningly as the ley line surged and it began to pour.

*

The Gray Man was never one to panic, which was good, because their situation had certainly taken a turn for the worse. He and Declan Lynch had already shot several men who'd attempted to climb the steep incline where they hid, and they were dangerously low on ammo. He wondered whether it might be worth attempting to barter with Igor for Maura and Blue’s safety (the man had a reputation for being marginally more level-headed than the Greenmantles), but with so many warring factions below, the Gray Man couldn’t see getting very far in the negotiations.

Everyone wanted one thing, and one thing only: the Greywarren. It was clear they were prepared to kill for it.

Speaking of… Ronan Lynch had passed out several minutes earlier, and the Gray Man waited with tense anticipation for more of those murderous bird monsters to appear. He wasn’t sure how they’d fare against machine guns, but they were better than nothing. 

“Maura,” he said quietly. He held out the keys to her blue sedan. “When the distraction arrives- whatever form it takes- you and Blue should go to the car. I’ll cover you as best I can.”

Maura Sargeant tilted her head. “And leave you and the boys behind? I think not, Mr. Gray.”

“Your loyalty is admirable, but I’d prefer use my remaining bullets to get you both to safety rather than merely prolong the inevitable.”

Maura glanced at her daughter. Then she nodded, accepting the car keys. The Gray Man reluctantly turned his attention to the forest. Looking into Maura Sargent’s lovely brown eyes was certainly the preferable view.

Lighting whited out the sky above them and thunder cracked so loudly that Gansey exclaimed: “My god!”

The Gray Man looked above them, where dark storm clouds had gathered in the blink of an eye. The downpour was so immediate and so violent that it took the Gray Man a moment to register what was happening.

Declan Lynch hastily pulled the collar of his designer hunting jacket over his head as Blue and Gansey scurried for shelter under a nearby pine tree.

Someone whispered in the Gray Man’s ear. He turned, but saw only Maura, whose head was tilted, her gaze distant as raindrops splattered her face. He was about to ask whether she’d heard something, too, when something flittered across the corner of his vision.

He looked, but there was nothing there.

With the torrential rain, it wasn't likely… but he was certain that he’d just seen a small, brown sparrow, flittering in the corner of his vision. There it was again.

Once, early in his childhood, the Gray Man had rescued a broken sparrow from his brother’s bedroom (his brother had often tortured small animals, extending their suffering for as long as possible). The Gray Man had located the sparrow’s fluttering heartbeat and fed and cared for the bird for several days, after which it had hopped out his window and returned to the wild, fully healed.

 _This is who you are._

The voice in his head was not his own. The Gray Man looked around again, his pulse quickening at the strangely intrusive thought.

The Gray Man was now standing in a dark, quiet parking garage in front of the high-powered attorney he’d been hired to kill, gun raised. The other man’s mouth was opened in stunned shock, his body clearly warring with his fight-or-flight impulses. The attorney's car door opened, and the man’s eleven-year-old daughter emerged, eyes wide and terrified. The Gray Man hadn’t realized she was present.

The Gray Man put his gun away. He wasn’t going to murder the child’s father in front of her.

_This is who you are._

The Gray Man was seated across from Adam Parrish at the Greenmantle’s dining room table, reading a hand-written essay after Adam had asked, hesitantly, for his feedback. Were it an essay written by one of his university students, the Gray Man would have given it a near-perfect score. When he informed Adam of this fact, the teenager had been startled, and the Gray Man wondered if no one had ever told Adam how much potential he had. 

_This is who you are._

The Gray Man grimaced and wrenched himself back to the present, even as scattered thoughts and memories continued to swirl in his vision.

Maura had engulfed her daughter in an enormous hug and the two were swaying slightly where they stood. It was hard to tell, with the rain, but he thought both of them might have been crying. Beside them, Gansey was crouched, staring into the middle distance with his mouth slightly agape in awe, though whatever he was seeing or hearing was a mystery to the Gray Man.

Declan had pressed one hand to the side of his head, as though in the throes of an agonizing headache. With his other, he shook his brother’s shoulder insistently.

“Ronan… _Ronan_.”

The middle Lynch son was flat on his back on a bed of dead leaves, eyes closed, as the rain pelted down. The wind picked up and the rain began to fall even harder, now at an angle.

“I think he dreamt this,” the Gray Man shouted, meaning the weather. “Whenever he dreams, he’s frozen for a few-”

“I know,” Declan called back. He swore loudly and grabbed his brother under the armpits, dragging him to where the rest of their group was huddled under the pine tree.

There was a yell and a violent spray of gunfire below them, barely audible over the rushing wind. One of Igor’s bodyguards had turned towards his hunched employer, his face twisted in rage, and was firing his handgun wildly. Igor and two others were mowed down in a spray of blood. The man then pressed the gun to his own head and fell to the ground a moment later.

Another man—one of the newcomers the Gray Man vaguely recognized as a freelance hired gun—had dropped his weapon and was walking into the woods on the opposite side of the road. The Gray Man caught a glimpse of his expression: it was utterly, completely blank.

There were more shouts, but the memories flashing in the Gray Man’s mind picked up with dizzying speed and he crouched and shut his eyes against them.

Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the rain stopped, leaving a hollow silence in its wake, punctuated by the sound of water dripping on wet leaves all around them.

“What the hell did you dream, Ronan?” Declan asked in a thin, strained voice.

“Did it work?” Ronan croaked.

The Gray Man opened his eyes and looked below, where the gravel road was littered with bodies. “I’d say so.”

“I’m sorry,” Gansey said faintly. “When you said, 'dream', do you mean…” he trailed off.

Ronan’s voice was rough. “Yeah, I dreamt the weather. It’s a thing I can do.”

Declan said, warningly, “Ronan…” and Ronan snapped back, “Fuck off Declan, I’m not leaving him in the dark anymore.”

Blue interrupted, “You did _what_ with your dream?”

“That’s…” Gansey was clearly at a loss for words. “ _Ronan_. You incredible creature.” At the affection in his voice, the Gray Man wondered, in a wry, distant sort of way, whether Maura’s daughter had competition for the rich boy’s affections.

He leaned over the edge of the hilly precipice, keeping a sharp eye out for movement below, but all was still.

Maura stood next to her daughter, listening intently as Ronan Lynch explained the mechanics of his dreaming in a low voice. After a few minutes she approached the Gray Man. Her dark hair hung in damp, ropy strands around her face. “Well, this all makes a lot more sense now.”

The Gray Man didn’t know whether she meant the strange, supernatural rain or Ronan being kidnapped in the first place, or both.

She crouched next to the Gray Man, making an exaggerated expression of displeasure. “Wet jeans are the _worst_.” She eyed his injured leg clinically. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got shot,” the Gray Man answered honestly. He shrugged. “I’ll live.”

She scanned the scene below them. “Think it’s safe to go down?”

“Seems that way. Stay behind me.” He stood, then paused. “I don’t mean to order you around.”

Maura’s smile was sly. “Honestly? I didn’t mind.”

Was she flirting with him? There was a distinct possibility.

The group mobilized (everyone was soaked and in varying degrees of misery as a result) and began to carefully make their way down the wooded slope. The dead leaves on the ground were slick with rainwater. The Gray Man almost slipped; Maura caught him by the elbow just in time.

There was a flash of color behind a tree. The Gray Man raised his hand and told the rest of the group: “Wait here.”

He cautiously approached. It was one of the men the Gray Man had shot, earlier. The man was leaning against a tree trunk, his calf wrapped in a bloody t-shirt (at a glance, the Gray Man surmised the wound was not fatal). Both of his arms were wrapped around his torso and he was muttering to himself, rocking slightly.

“Are you armed?”

The man gave no indication he’d heard the Gray Man, merely continued rocking in place, his head knocking against the trunk of the tree. Whatever visions Ronan’s dreamed rain had given him, it was clearly driving him mad.

The Gray Man quickly relieved the man of his Sig Sauer handgun, then left him where he was and continued onwards, gesturing to the rest of the group to do the same.

The scene that met them once they reached the gravel road at the bottom of the hill was unnerving in its serenity.

Steam rose from the dewy hood of the white van, which was now riddled with bullet holes. Two crumpled bodies lay several feet away: Igor and one of his lackeys. The driver’s side door of the sleek sedan hung open, and the suited man inside was draped over the wheel, eyes half-lidded and unseeing in death.

Behind Igor’s car, the Gray Man saw another body sprawled in the gravel; one of the later arrivals. Likely a hired gun for another rich collector.

Footprints led into the woods. The Gray Man wondered if the man who’d wandered off would ever return, or if Ronan's dream magic would drive him mad, too.

“It wasn’t supposed to do that,” Ronan muttered, his eyes darting to the dead bodies closest to them, then quickly away. Gansey raised a comforting hand to Ronan’s shoulder, taking in the death and destruction in grave silence.

“Your rain didn’t do this. At least, not directly. They shot each other,” Declan surmised, inspecting the scene with matter-of-fact detachment. Ronan scowled at his brother.

Whereas the rest of the group (include the Gray Man) were all a bit shaken by whatever visions the rain had given them, Declan had only become more focused and alert. He stuck to Ronan’s side like there was glue between them, gripping his shotgun like he intended to use it at any moment.

The scrawny, tattooed van driver was curled up in a ball alongside the gravel road, sobbing noisily and clutching at his head. His gun lay abandoned beside him. Declan marched forward, his boots squelching in the mud, and snatched up the weapon. Then he looked to the Gray Man, his face betraying an unspoken question. The Gray Man considered the weeping man, then shook his head. There was no need to dispose of him. He clearly was no longer a threat.

Declan nodded, his expression betraying nothing, and stepped away.

“What do we do now?” Blue’s voice shook slightly, but she was holding it together valiantly at her mother’s side.

“You guys could take my SUV since your car is blocked in,” Declan suggested. Ronan opened his mouth in furious protest, but Declan cut him off, his tone a little weary. “We’re not gonna leave Adam behind. I’ll go get him.”

“I’m coming with,” Ronan said immediately.

Gansey straightened. “I’ll be coming too, then.” 

Blue’s tone was firm. “And me.”

Declan made a noise of frustration. The Gray Man met Maura’s eyes and she shrugged a little helplessly. He supposed there was nothing for it; they would all be heading back to the factory together to retrieve Adam and Persephone.

*

Gansey had taken the knowledge of Ronan’s dreaming more or less in stride, though every so often Ronan caught him glancing at Ronan and shaking his head in wonder as they made their way carefully down the muddy hill.

When they reached the bottom, Ronan felt sick to his stomach. He’d intentionally brought Cabeswater’s weather back to _avoid_ more bloodshed.

_This is who you are._

He didn’t fully understand the rain’s magic, but it had something to do with peeling back all the layers of bullshit inside a person. He guessed a bunch of killers and kidnappers couldn’t handle that sort of raw truth. He glanced at Gray, who was unusually pale but more or less unshaken. So whatever Gray had seen within himself hadn’t been debilitatingly awful… or maybe it had been, and the hitman simply didn’t care.

Declan, for his part, was practically breathing down Ronan’s neck, but not with frustrated impatience, like Ronan was used to. Instead, his brother’s expression had become frighteningly resolute--even deadly. Ronan wondered, belatedly, what Declan had been shown during Cabeswater’s rainstorm.

Everyone walked in silence up the gravel road, glancing around alertly at every twig that snapped. The smell of burning wood grew stronger as they walked and the sun peeked through the clouds in intermittent, watery rays. Ronan shivered. He should’ve dreamed a warmer temperature.

Still, it was hard to be too miserable as he remembered bringing his hand to Adam’s face, kissing Adam, Adam kissing him back…

He quickened his pace and turned off the road to cut through a sparse copse of trees to reach the factory quicker.

Which meant he was the one to run face-first into Hal.

The burly man was clearly caught off-guard; his hands were empty, and he was doubled over as though in pain. There were fresh cuts on his neck—courtesy of Ronan’s dreamed horrors at the Greenmantle party.

Ronan skidded to a halt, almost slipping on the wet forest floor. Hal looked up, his expression uncomprehending for the briefest of seconds. Then, his features twisted with rage. 

Ronan recovered from his surprise faster. He lunged forward, stepping into the punch (just like his dad had taught him) and slamming his fist into Hal’s face.

Hal dropped like a stone.

“ _That_ was for Adam,” Ronan snarled. His knuckles had split open and were bleeding freely.

He wanted to continue his assault, but he hesitated. It didn’t feel right to kick a man while he was down… even if that man deserved it.

Sticks cracked behind him. He kept his furious gaze on Hal, watching for any signs of a fight, but the big man merely rolled to his back and moaned. Declan arrived at Ronan’s side, expression stony.

Gray stepped forward and kneeled, his right knee digging into the burly man’s sternum. “Is Piper Greenmantle still alive?”

“Get off me, come on...”

Fear shot through Ronan. “Does she have Adam?”

“Adam?” Hal sounded genuinely confused.

Gray’s voice was deadly calm. “The psychic boy.”

“Oh. I don’t know, man, I just started running when the rain came-“

Ronan was ready to start swinging again but Gray leaned forward—Hal let out a pained whine and flopped his arms uselessly—and asked, “ _Before_ the rain, did she have Adam?”

“No! What do you care, Gray?” Hal panted. Blood had stained his teeth a sickly orange. “My suggestion? Hit up Igor, sell the Dreamer for cash and get the hell outta dodge. Piper’s out for blood.” 

Declan racked the shotgun and pointed it at Hal. “Say one more fucking word about my brother.”

“It’s nothing _personal_ ,” Hal shot back. He looked appealingly to Gray. “You know I’m right, come on. Let me go.” 

Gray’s expression was hard. “Get up.”

“But-“

Gray hauled the man to his feet and pressed his gun to his side, forcing the man to walk ahead of them through the trees and towards the factory’s overgrown parking lot.

“What the hell are we doing?” Ronan muttered to Declan.

“If Piper has Adam, we’ll barter for a trade,” Declan responded, as though that was somehow fucking obvious. “Wait here. Stay in the trees until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Ronan hated that this was what his life had become. Guns and lies and, now, deals with the devil. He sent up a fervent prayer to God, the first time he’d done so since being kidnapped: _Please let Adam be all right._

Maura, Blue and Gansey caught up with Ronan, and they all waited, hidden by a clump of bushes, as Declan, Gray and a mutely furious Hal entered the parking lot.

Blue gasped and clapped both hands to her mouth. A moment later, Ronan realized why.

Piper approached the far edge of the lot, in front of her helicopter, one arm wrapped constrictively around Persephone’s neck. With her other hand, she pressed a gun to the woman’s head. Both of them were drenched from the rain, and Persephone looked overly pale and wraithlike in her bedraggled dress.

The left side of Piper’s face was a terrifying webbing of deep cuts stitched closed with rows of dark thread. It was clear her face has been raked by several sets of bird claws.

To the right of the helicopter, the factory loomed. Several of the walls had crumbled and the ones that remained were blackened and burned. The roof had caved in. The rain had doused the fire, but smoke still rose from the right side of the building, dark and lazy.

Adam was noticeably absent.

Declan led the way, shotgun at his side. He stopped about ten yards from Piper, next to Gray’s abandoned Corolla. Persephone was either unaware of the danger she was in or else she didn’t care: she ignored Piper, Gray and Hal completely in favor of looking at Declan serenely with a long, unblinking stare.

Piper’s voice rang out, falsely bright and bordering on manic. “Is that Declan Lynch? So grown up! Daddy must be so proud.” She paused, then corrected herself: “Well, he would be. If he wasn’t dead.”

Declan was silent for a moment before he said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Piper waved the hand holding the gun as though brushing his words away. “We can skip the formalities. You know who I am. I’ve got a bone to pick with your brother. Do you see what he did to my face? They thought I was going to lose an eye- do you realize how _ugly_ eye patches are? And he killed my husband!”

She huffed and jostled Persephone. “ _Anyway_. Down to business. Is this one with you? Because she is _very_ strange.”

Declan’s voice dripped with disdain. “Does she look like she’s with us?”

For a moment, fury jolted through Ronan—it was typical of his brother to abandon someone right when they needed him--then, he begrudgingly saw Declan’s logic. If Piper thought Persephone was worthless to them, maybe she’d let the other woman go.

“We propose a trade,” Gray said, his tone even, almost bored.

Piper scoffed. “Unless you’re trading the Dreamer, I’m not interested.”

Hal made a noise of indignation and Gansey moved a little closer to Ronan, his fingers subconsciously closing on the sleeve of Ronan's shirt.

Declan pressed his lips in a firm line and raised his shotgun, eying Piper clinically through the scope. Even from his angle, Ronan knew it would be an insane shot to take with Persephone in the way.

“You know, Declan _._ I’m surprised to see you with Mr. Gray,” Piper said conversationally, nodding to the hitman. “After what he did to daddy dearest.”

Declan froze, and Piper’s smile widened as Ronan’s heart sank.

Fuck.

“Oh, you didn’t know? Mr. Gray here bludgeoned Niall to death with a tire iron. Such a bloody, needlessly _painful_ end for daddy, don’t you think?”

Declan’s eyes flicked to Gray and Ronan was suddenly certain that the man was about to be on the receiving end of a shotgun blast. He didn’t think he cared whether Gray died- but not like this. Not at Declan’s hand.

He was already walking forward, leaving the tree line behind without being fully conscious of it.

“Declan,” Ronan said, quietly. He knew exactly how his older brother felt, right now. He also knew if Declan acted on his homicidal impulses—however justified—they were all dead. “Don’t listen to her. Take the shot.”

Declan’s gaze was hard but he cut his gaze back to Piper through his viewfinder and, with visible force, quashed his emotions and relaxed his shoulders, displaying a level of control Ronan would never master.

Declan focused, calmly exhaled through his nose and pulled the trigger, unleashing his last bullet and their last line of defense.

_BANG_

Piper swore and stumbled backwards, clutching her shoulder.

“Nice try, bitch,” Declan muttered darkly as he lowered the rifle. Ronan was a little unnerved by his brother's intensity. 

Persephone disentangled herself from Piper’s clutches and yanked the gun insistently from the stumbling woman’s hand, tossing it in a graceful arc into the tall grass that lined the factory. Piper turned and stumbled towards the helicopter, her arm streaked with blood.

Declan strode forward to meet Persephone. “You’re all right?”

Her voice was light and unperturbed. “Oh, yes.”

“I’m guessing that’s what you meant by ‘Take the shot’?”

Persephone patted him briefly on the shoulder. “Just so.”

Without warning, Hal dropped his body weight and drove his elbow into Gray’s injured thigh. Gray’s knee buckled and Hal broke free, lunging for Ronan and hauling him towards Gray’s car.

Ronan’s feet momentarily left the ground as he snarled and struggled viciously. Hal managed to get one of the doors open when there was a yell that sounded like a war cry and suddenly, Hal had released Ronan with a howl of pain. Ronan fell to the ground in an ungainly heap.

Blue Sargent had leapt onto Hal’s back and was digging her fingernails into his eyeballs, her expression savage. Hal twisted violently and the short girl went flying.

“You little-“

Blue scuttled backwards on her elbows as Hal aimed a kick in her direction.

“BLUE!” Maura and Gansey were sprinting towards them, but Gray got to Hal first, tackling him to the ground before the burly man could hurt her.

Ronan crawled forward to loop an arm around Blue’s middle and drag her back several feet, out of range of the flailing limbs of the wrestling men. Gansey arrived and skidded to his knees and for a moment, they were a tangled mess of limbs as Blue buried her face into Gansey’s shoulder, hands shaking and speckled with blood that wasn’t hers.

Gray pinned Hal face-down on the ground.

“Come on, man, I was gonna split the profit, I swear-“

“Try again.” Gray’s voice was derisive. He slammed the burly man’s head against the cracked pavement and the man wailed in pain.

“Fuckin’ fine, I’ll leave the Dreamer alone! The psychic too!”

At the mention of Adam, Gray’s face went terrifyingly still. “I don’t believe you,” he said, and he wrapped his arms around the man in a chokehold that would be illegal in the ring.

Beside him, Gansey stared, expression almost comically rapt.

Ronan knew what was about to happen.

“Gansey, look at me,” Ronan said sharply. Gansey obeyed right as Gray broke Hal’s neck, killing him instantly and painlessly.

Ronan did not flinch. He grabbed Gansey by the collar before the other teen could look over his shoulder. Gansey had enough trouble sleeping as it was; he didn’t need to see this.

Gray released the bigger man, gently laying his head (which was now bent at an awkward angle) onto the ground, his expression grimly satisfied.

Ronan was very, very glad that Gray was on their side.

There was shouting from the direction of the helicopter. Piper appeared to be arguing with her pilot, who was pointing at the sky in the distance, shaking his head. Then, a moment later, she shoved him unceremoniously from the cockpit. The man leaped to the ground, stumbled, and took off running towards the trees.

Piper hopped into the seat herself and the blades of the helicopter started to spin.

Ronan swore loudly as Piper’s helicopter rose off the ground, the wind from its blades whipping Declan and Persephone’s hair wildly and sending them staggering backwards. Gray’s car partially blocked the wind from hitting Ronan but the noise was unbearably loud.

Gray stood, gun pointed, but there was nothing he could do.

Piper was going to get away.

Ronan’s gut twisted with helplessness. If Piper escaped, then this wasn’t over, they would still have to run, he and Adam would never be safe—

Out of nowhere, a second helicopter swooped into view over their heads.

_Helen._

Gansey whooped and waved as Helen Gansey—statuesque and regal, even from the distance—directed her navy blue helicopter to hover directly above Piper’s, effectively blocking the other woman’s escape. Helen, wearing a large pair of earphones, raised a hand to her younger brother in greeting. Ronan grinned sharply.

For a moment, it looked like Piper was going to have no choice but to return to the ground.

Then, Ronan saw her face screw up in anger, and rather then lower itself, her helicopter jerked to the side, as though hoping to circumvent Helen.

Piper clearly was not an experienced pilot. The helicopter jerked again, trying to course correct, tilting too far to the side, and the blades crashed into the ground, sending chunks of concrete and earth flying and propelling the helicopter directly towards the factory.

A lone figure was emerging from the smoking ruin of the factory, carefully making his way over a crumbling brick wall. He looked up as the helicopter careened wildly towards him.

Adam.

“ _NO!_ ” The terrified yell that was ripped from Ronan’s throat was inhuman as the helicopter crashed into the building, toppling one of the remaining walls and exploding in a deafening explosion of steel and fire.

Adam raised his arms reflexively before he was engulfed in a ball of flame.

Blue screamed.

A cloud of thick smoke hit Ronan like a physical force, bringing with it the sickening smell of petrol and burning plastic.

Gansey tried to drag Ronan away from the wreckage, but Ronan wrenched his shoulder free and staggered through the smoke as though in a nightmare, the fiery heat unbearable against his skin, ash swirled around him, clogging his lungs—

Blue hurtled past him, and let out another shriek and Ronan knew what she’d discovered: Adam’s bloody corpse, charred beyond recognition—

The haze cleared to reveal Blue on her knees, hugging a body to her chest.

A body that was raising its arms, hugging her back—how—?

Ronan fell to his knees as Adam looked up from where he was lying, his face and arms streaked with soot but otherwise unharmed.

There was a perfect circle of untouched grass around the teenaged psychic. Beyond that circle, the weeds and grass and brick had been scorched to a sooty black.

Blue sat back, wiping at her face with her sleeve, and Adam shakily got to his feet to approach Ronan. Ronan was half-convinced he was seeing a ghost.

“You died,” Ronan croaked. “I saw you die.”

“The ley line protected me,” Adam said, his voice exhausted but amazed. “Ronan, I’m fine.”

Ronan reeled as he pressed both palms to his eyes.

“Fuck, Parrish, fuck-“

He abruptly pulled Adam in, wrapping his arms tightly around Adam’s upper legs and pressing his face to the front of his sweatshirt, which was stiff with ash and smelled like a campfire. Ronan didn’t give a fuck how he looked to Declan or to anyone else right now; he was having trouble remembering how to fucking breathe.

“I’m really okay,” Adam said again, patting Ronan’s shoulder awkwardly. He coughed, then quietly repeated, “We’re okay, Ronan. It’s... over.”

And with a rush of emotion Ronan realized Adam was right.

The whole terrible fucking ordeal was finally, _finally_ over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I can't traumatize these kids for 70k words and not give them any space to heal so you get ten (10) chapters of hurt and now you'll get one (1) chapter of comfort (maybe two, you know me, we'll see how it goes.) (Also don't be mad if our definitions of 'comfort' differ, okay, I really love my angst.)
> 
> Lastly come yell at me on tumblr we have a good time over there [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)


	11. eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the angst train choo choo

Ronan didn’t want to let go of Adam, but the other teen looked like he was about to collapse so Ronan slowly released his grip and shakily got to his feet. Blue joined them and the trio escaped the intense heat to rejoin the rest of the group in the parking lot a safe distance away.

No one bothered to check whether Piper was alive. Even if she had somehow survived the initial crash, without a magical ley line to protect her, there was no way she would be emerging from the resulting inferno. The air was thick with smoke and ash drifted down gently, dusting everyone’s shoulders so it looked like they all had awful dandruff.

With the immediate danger behind them, it was as though Ronan’s body suddenly remembered it hadn’t slept in 24 hours and he had to fight just to keep his eyes open. He was tired enough that the thought _I wish I could just talk to mom right now_ crossed his mind, which was exactly the sort of painful line of thinking he generally avoided at all costs. So he turned his brain off, sat down heavily next to a tree, and waited for someone (Declan, probably) to tell him what to do.

If Ronan was tired, though, Adam looked like he’d reached a near-lethal level of exhaustion. He hovered near the tree beside Ronan, staring blankly into the middle distance with his hands fisted into the front of his hoodie as though he had a stomachache. With the bruises and ash smeared across his face and the disturbing, thousand-yard stare, he looked like a battered war refugee. Blue and Ronan exchanged concerned looks.

“Sit down, Parrish,” Ronan suggested, tugging on the bottom of Adam’s sweatshirt, but Adam didn’t seem to hear him.

Helen landed her helicopter a safe distance away from the blazing factory and Gansey briefly filled her in with a version of events that excluded any mention of the supernatural. She volunteered to take Piper’s pilot (a man Gray apparently knew and trusted to keep his mouth shut) back to Boston and tried to convince Gansey to come with her. Gansey politely refused to leave Ronan behind, so Helen departed with a fierce hug for her brother and a somewhat fixed smile for Ronan, which he acknowledged with a sharp nod.

Gray received a text and announced: “A safe house has been secured for us. I suggest we reside there until we can decide on further action.”

As the carpools to the safe house were being decided, Persephone fetched the beat-up blue sedan and led Adam to the backseat, where he curled up and promptly fell asleep.

“Is he okay?” Blue asked as her aunt shut the door quietly. One of Blue’s fingernails was cracked and bleeding; she stuck it in her mouth.

“The ley line drew from his energy more than I thought it would. He will need to learn to block it,” Persephone explained, which wasn’t any kind of answer Ronan understood. She didn’t seem concerned, though, so Ronan figured Adam wasn’t in mortal danger (then again, she hadn’t seemed particularly disturbed by a gun to her head, either).

Ronan was eventually directed to Declan’s SUV. Gansey argued with Declan and won the rights to drive (“You drove all night,” Gansey pointed out), and Declan begrudgingly took the passenger seat.

No one spoke as Gansey followed Gray’s dark Corolla and the beat-up sedan that carried Adam, Blue and the two female psychics out of the woods and onto the highway. Ronan didn’t sleep; he didn’t want to risk bringing back another dangerous weather pattern from his dreams while Gansey was driving. Declan had reloaded the shotgun before they’d left and still seemed to be on high alert.

“I wanna call Matthew,” Ronan croaked. Declan wordlessly handed over his cell phone.

His younger brother picked up on the first ring. “Declan? Did you find him?”

“Hey, Matty.”

“RONAN!” Matthew released a giddy burst of laughter. “You’re okay! I knew you would be! I kept telling Declan but he didn’t believe me!”

Ronan leaned back and closed his eyes, not bothering to fight the smile spreading across his face. “They treating you okay over there?”

“Oh, yes! Orla’s cat had kittens last night! They are so cute and small and they can’t even open their eyes- Calla won’t let me hold them, we have to wait until they’re older, but they let me name one and said I can have her! Do you think Declan will let me? Her name is Sunshine!”

“Declan can’t stop you from having a cat. Just take it.”

“Awesome!” Matthew exclaimed as Declan spun around, his face pinched in disapproval.

“He can’t have a cat, pets aren’t allowed in the dorms,” Declan hissed.

Ronan flipped him off. He figured Gansey could grease the wheels, encourage the Aglionby faculty to look the other way. Ronan wasn’t above playing the orphan card either, if it meant making his younger brother happy. He talked to Matthew for another hour (or, more specifically, listened to Matthew’s endless, upbeat monologue) until Declan’s phone died.

“How’s Czerny?” Ronan asked Gansey as he tossed Declan’s phone into the center divider. Declan had dozed off and was lightly snoring.

Gansey sighed. “Worried about you, obviously. He disappeared two nights ago, not sure where he went. You know how he is.” Noah was always drifting in and out of Monmouth on a schedule that made sense only to him. Ronan missed him.

Gray’s safe house ended up being a secluded, two-story cabin on a lake. The lake itself was serene and placid, though Ronan imagined it was probably filled with fishermen and partying jet skiers during the summer. It was late in the season, though, and the few surrounding houses were dark and empty.

Everyone trooped inside. Declan, Gray and Maura conferred in the kitchen (how his older brother could talk so calmly with the hitman was beyond Ronan) and Gray announced they would all spend the night while he and his contacts spread word that the Dreamer had been killed in the helicopter crash (which had, by now, made local news).

Blue had been hesitant to wake Adam, so Ronan went back outside and pulled open the car door. Adam, face hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt, didn’t move.

“Hey,” Ronan said, shaking Adam’s shoulder. Adam woke with a sharp, panicked inhale. “It’s okay,” Ronan said quickly, and Adam looked up at him blearily. “We just got to Gray’s safe house.”

Adam mumbled something incoherent and nodded.

Once inside, Adam curled up, almost childlike, on the bed in the first bedroom they came across on the ground floor. He was asleep almost immediately. Ronan pulled Adam’s battered sneakers off his feet and Blue arrived with a quilt that she pulled over his shoulders.

Ronan hovered, soaking in every detail of Adam’s prone form. The other teen’s face was a reddish hue (when the hell had Adam gotten a sunburn?) and his hair was a tangled, sooty mess that Ronan desperately wanted to sort out. Blue and Gansey were watching anxiously from the doorway though, so Ronan merely closed the curtains and they left Adam to sleep.

Ronan took the longest shower of his life and claimed a bedroom upstairs, collapsing onto one of the twin beds in a pair of pajama pants Gansey had lent him.

Gansey was sitting on the other twin bed, leaning against the headboard and reading a paperback novel he must have found somewhere in the house.

“I actually liked your new style,” he said somewhat mournfully, and Ronan realized Gansey was referencing the horrifically patriotic shirt Ronan held in his hand. Ronan balled it up and chucked it at him. Gansey ducked, grinning.

“You gotta go. I’m gonna take a nap. I can’t always control what I bring back,” Ronan explained, tucking his hands behind his head. “Sometimes that shit’s dangerous.”

Gansey—unable to help himself—leaned forward, his expression deeply interested. Ronan got the sense he’d been barely restraining himself since learning of his best friend’s unique ability. “Does that mean you’ve dreamt things at Monmouth? Anything I’ve seen?”

“Chainsaw.”

Gansey’s expression transformed into one of pure amazement. Ronan was so used to his dreams bringing about harsh criticism (Declan) or pain (Adam’s bruised face flashed across his mind) that he sometimes forgot that, in actuality, what he could do _was_ pretty amazing. He’d thought it was the coolest thing in the world when he’d been a kid.

“Not everything I dream is so nice.”

“I wouldn’t consider Chainsaw _nice_. She shredded one of my Aglionby ties this week.”

Ronan grinned briefly. “That’s my girl.” The mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable beneath him, but he didn’t care.

“Well, I’ll let you sleep,” Gansey said, but Ronan had already closed his eyes.

Cabeswater was vivid and teeming with life. Ronan watched wild squirrels and antlered deer wander past him as he waited in a forest clearing, hoping that Adam would show up as he’d done twice before. His mind wandered lazily as he leaned back in the cool, spongy grass. He’d forgotten how peaceful Cabeswater could be. That it was, under normal circumstances, a place of refuge for him.

It felt like it been so long since he’d dreamt without some sort of life-or-death threat hanging over his head.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind when his dream took a dark turn, the walls (when had he been transported out of the forest?) closing in as the whir of a drill bit screeched in his ear. He was in the trunk of a car, the light vanishing as the trunk slammed shut, but not before he glimpsed a lifeless body beside him.

 _Adam_ , Ronan tried to yell, but a pink pillowcase had been thrown over his head, muffling him.

“We’ll carve the boy up, nice and slow,” Colin Greenmantle’s voice said in Ronan’s ear, and suddenly the pillow case was being ripped off Ronan’s head and Matthew was kneeling before him, staring at Ronan with wide, panicked eyes as Hal pressed a knife to his younger brother’s neck. Ronan lunged forward but collided with an impenetrable glass wall. Featureless figures leered at him, laughing at his helplessness as he beat his fists against the walls of his prison.

Adam emerged from the shadows, dressed in an emerald green suit, his gaze terrible and accusatory. In his hand was a tire iron, dripping with blood.

“You can’t protect anyone,” Adam said, placing the African tribal mask from Greenmantle’s collection over his face, his unblinking eyes boring into Ronan’s from the other side of the glass. Then he turned away.

Ronan tried to yell, to reason, to beg Adam to return, but he was powerless to speak, as was often the case in his nightmares.

Ronan woke shivering and drenched in cold sweat. It was dark out; he had no idea what time it was. He rolled over. Declan was sleeping soundly in the other bed, the shotgun lying on the floor within easy reach. Clean, white gauze was wrapped around his forehead.

Ronan lay there for a minute, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. _Just a nightmare_ , he told himself, knowing full well that for him, there was no such thing as “just” a nightmare. At least he hadn’t brought anything back; he was getting better at controlling what and when he manifested his dreams. It was probably the one good thing that had come from the past week.

Well, that, and meeting Adam.

_You can’t protect anyone._

Ronan buried his face in the pillow, willing himself to calm down. When his heart rate had returned to something close to normal and he no longer felt the overwhelming urge to scream, he went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Voices murmured below, and he caught a whiff of something that smelled fucking delicious. He grabbed one of his tank tops from Declan’s leather backpack (his brother had also packed Ronan’s toothbrush; Ronan was annoyed at the thoughtful gesture) and went downstairs.

Gansey was seated on the couch reading his cheap paperback and Blue Sargent was draped over the armchair next to him, watching Persephone feed a fire that was crackling cheerily in the fireplace. One of Blue’s nail beds was still leaking blood; the result of her brief struggle with Hal. In the kitchen, Gray chopped vegetables and Maura stirred something in a large pot with a wooden spoon. After a week of near-unbearable intensity, the idyllic scene before him was jarring and surreal.

Ronan went to check on Adam, who was nothing more than a dark lump on the bed. Ronan crept closer (and then closer still), trying in vain to determine if the dark lump was breathing, at least.

“Ronan?”

Ronan jumped about a mile. “Fuck, Parrish.” He fumbled with the bedside lamp and a moment later the other teenager was illuminated by weak, yellow light. Adam blinked languidly up at Ronan, still half-asleep. The quilt was tangled around his torso and leg; the telltale sign of a restless sleeper.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. What’re we doing?”

“I think Blue’s mom is making chili.”

“No, I mean... how long are we here for?”

Ronan shrugged. “Gray’s telling his people we got killed in the helicopter crash. So I guess once everyone believes that, we’ll go back to Virginia.”

Adam sighed and nodded. His hand twitched on the quilt and Ronan reached for it, threading his fingers through Adam’s like it was easy, natural. Not something that had had his heart aching with longing in his chest. Adam’s cheeks were still flushed with red, so Ronan pressed the back of his other hand to Adam’s forehead.

“Do I have a fever?”

“Fuck if I know.” Adam’s skin did feel kinda warm, but maybe that was normal.

Adam shifted onto his side and shut his eyes. “Gonna sleep more.”

“All right.”

Ronan squeezed his hand, and a moment later, Adam responded in like, the pressure faint but unmistakable.

“Want me to bring you a bowl?” Ronan asked.

But Adam was already asleep again, and Ronan sat for an indeterminate amount of time, holding Adam’s hand and trying to calm the inexplicable, anxious sense of dread that churned in his gut at Adam’s expression, which remained tight with something akin to pain even in his sleep.

*

Ronan chowed down three bowls of chili on the couch next to Gansey while Persephone, Gray and Blue’s mom took their food and a bottle of wine out onto the back patio. Ronan’s anger towards the hitman had dulled (it was hard to maintain that level of animosity towards someone who had saved all their lives) but the sight of him still had Ronan clenching his jaw in dislike. He managed to avoid any sort of interaction with Gray—which wasn’t hard, considering all the eye-fucking going on between the man and Blue’s mom.

Declan wandered down at some point, looking nearly as bleary and confused as Adam had. He ate his dinner at the dining room table, washed his bowl in the kitchen sink, and went back upstairs, all without saying a word. Gansey’s expression was worried as he tracked Declan’s weary ascent.

“He didn’t sleep all week,” Gansey said in a low voice.

Ronan felt guilty, then annoyed. He didn’t want to hear that Declan had lost sleep over his disappearance. He knew how to handle Declan when they were at odds; he didn’t know how to treat him when the undeniable, irritating truth that Declan _cared_ was on full display. Honestly, Ronan was embarrassed for his brother. 

Blue went to bed soon afterwards, yawning and shooting Ronan an assessing (but not really mean) look after wishing Gansey and the adults outside good night.

Gansey and Ronan stayed up for several more hours, watching the living room fire burn down to embers, talking and joking about nothing and everything, as though their time apart had lasted months and not just a week. As the night wore on, Ronan felt the tense, anxious knot inside himself loosen, bit by bit.

The conversation skirted dangerously close to Ronan’s time spent in captivity and Gansey, sensing Ronan’s discomfort, swiftly redirected: “Tell me about Adam. Is he as wonderful as Jane- that is, Blue- says?”

Ronan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He’s a fucking nerd.”

“I look forward to knowing him. I think I’ll call the headmaster tomorrow, make sure he knows Adam will be attending Aglionby this semester, what do you think? Unless Adam already called the school? But I know you two haven’t had access to a phone…”

Ronan tuned out the particulars of Gansey’s words and leaned back, just letting Gansey’s familiar tenor wash over him until the other teen declared it was time for bed.

Ronan’s dreams that night hovered on the edges of nightmare territory, but his time with Gansey must have done his subconscious some good because he managed to stay in Cabeswater, this time, and the winged night horror that appeared ignored Ronan in favor of gliding, swan-like, across Cabeswater’s massive lake.

*

The next day, after Ronan woke and was released from his paralyzed state, he went downstairs to find that Declan and Persephone were the only ones still inside. Persephone had taken over the kitchen table and was peering thoughtfully at her tarot cards. Declan sipped at a mug of black coffee while texting; every so often he shot the psychic a doubtful glance. _Judgmental prick_ , Ronan thought, although he himself had displayed just as much skepticism when he’d first learned of Adam’s abilities. He wondered if Adam was awake yet.

“Adam will wake when he’s ready,” Persephone murmured. Ronan stared for a moment, then made a hasty escape out the back door after grabbing more food than he could reasonably carry.

His mind was clearer, today. There was still a persistent, lingering fear that gnawed at him, but he’d woken with a better understanding of what, exactly, he was so afraid of, which meant he could maybe do something about it.

Blue, dressed in an oversized t-shirt and pleated skirt, was sitting on the edge of the dock, watching Gansey skip stones. She eyed Ronan through slightly narrowed eyes as he approached. They hadn’t spoken much yet, and it was clear she didn't know where they stood. Ronan dug into the pocket of Gansey’s pajama pants.

“Here,” he said gruffly, holding out what looked like a tube of chapstick. “I dreamt it. It’ll fix your finger.”

Blue’s eyebrows raised in surprise. After a moment’s deliberation, she accepted the tube, pulling the cap off and dabbing at her injured finger experimentally. Almost immediately, the torn, scabbed skin began to heal. “Huh. Thanks.”

Gansey beamed at Ronan approvingly and Ronan sat at the edge of the dock a few feet from Blue, his bare feet hanging over the smooth surface of the water. He tore into his breakfast.

“You’ve known Adam for a long time?” he asked with his mouth full. Gansey busied himself with finding another stone to skip.

“Not really. We became friends last year. We had a couple classes together.”

Ronan nodded. There was something he wanted to ask her before they returned to Virginia, before Adam woke up. He wasn’t sure if there was any good way to go about it, so he just said, bluntly: “What’s the deal with his parents?”

Blue worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about them. When I called his house in June, his mom didn’t seem to care where he was.”

Gansey wasn’t pretending not to eavesdrop anymore. “They didn’t know where he spent his summer?”

“They fucking knew,” Ronan said harshly. He pushed his food away. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

Blue’s voice was quiet. “He came to school with a black eye once. He said he’d gotten into a fight with some college kids, but… I can’t see him fighting anyone, can you?”

There was an uneasy, protracted silence.

“If his- I mean, if you think someone at his home is hurting him, my God, he shouldn’t go back there,” Gansey said with alarm.

“No,” Ronan agreed, scowling at the sinking feeling in his gut. “He shouldn’t.” He looked at Gansey, about to ask—but Gansey’s expression had already turned thoughtful. It was his ‘hunting for Glendower’ face and Ronan felt instantly better.

“What if he moved into the old management office? The one with all those desktop computers? Or, we could offer him the basement, although it’s so dusty. I suppose we could hire cleaners.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the office. I already asked him.”

God bless Gansey; he wasn’t annoyed that Ronan had invited a stranger to live with them without asking first. “Oh! What did he say?”

“Nothing, yet.”

Blue was squinting out over the water, her expression a little skeptical. “You might have a hard time getting him to accept. He doesn’t like asking for help.”

“He didn’t ask. I offered.”

Blue didn’t look convinced, but Ronan refused to let her hesitation ruin his suddenly buoyant mood, so he ignored her in favor of figuring out the best way to distract Gansey so he could push him in the lake.

*

Adam stood before a waterfall, the water crashing on the rocks below with a deafening fervor. The trees were trying to tell him something, but he was half-asleep, and he couldn’t hear the forest over the water. Suddenly, he was trapped beneath the waterfall; it lashed down on him so hard it was painful as water filled his lungs and his throat; and still, the forest called to him…

_magician magician magician_

Adam woke and stared blankly at the afternoon sunlight streaming into the unfamiliar bedroom. He bolted upright, his heart galloping as he took in the simple room and wood furnishings. His sleep had been a disorienting litany of whispers and rushing water and the pull of energy he’d come to recognize as the ley line; at one point, he thought someone had gripped his hand, anchoring him, but had that been real, or just another dream? He didn’t know. At another point, he’d seen a vibrant green sapling emerging from the base of a blackened husk of a tree and he knew if he were to return to the burned-out factory, he’d find that exact sapling poking its way through the ash like a phoenix.

The events of the previous day flooded back to him, foggy and unbelievable; if it weren’t for his ash-stained clothes, he might have thought it all had been another dream.

He felt hot and feverish. He was obscenely thirsty.

He ventured cautiously from the room. The house was large and wooden and boasted an outdated kitchen with laminate countertops. Outside the living room windows, he saw Ronan, Gansey and Blue hanging out at the edge of a massive lake, their backs to the house. As he watched, Blue darted forward and splashed them both. Adam felt the corner of his mouth lift.

Mr. Gray’s low voice floated in from an open window behind him, and Adam peered out the front door and saw him and Blue’s mom seated on a wooden rocking bench on the house’s enormous, wrap-around porch. They both held mugs of something steaming.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

Adam spun around as Ronan’s older brother, Declan, descended the stairs, looking incongruously put-together for their modest surroundings. He glanced at a wristwatch that probably cost more than the trailer Adam had grown up in.

“You’ve been asleep almost 24 hours,” Declan commented. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”

Declan poured himself a cup of coffee, eying his brother critically through the back window, and Adam debated whether to stay in Declan’s awkward company so he could eat or escape outside to join Blue, Ronan and Gansey. His stomach won out.

“What did I miss?” He asked Declan as he downed a cup of tap water and dug into a bowl of leftover chili, too hungry to take the time to heat it up first.

“Mr. Gray and his contacts are spreading word that you and my brother are dead,” Declan said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We’ll head back to Henrietta once he gives the go-ahead, likely tomorrow or Monday. You will need to be enrolled at Aglionby under a pseudonym. We don’t think anyone knows your real name, but as a precaution.”

Aglionby. Henrietta. Home. Adam’s throat tightened, his brief happiness at seeing Ronan and Blue forgotten. He nodded at Declan and quickly choked down his food, standing up at the counter.

“Do you want to call anyone? Your parents?” Declan offered, holding out his cell phone.

No, Adam didn’t, but he nodded and accepted the phone anyway.

Ronan and Gansey were now tussling on the dock, trying to throw each other into the lake, and Declan strode across the living room and threw open the sliding glass door.

“Knock it off, Ronan!” he shouted. Ronan’s response was cutting, but Adam wasn’t paying attention. He ensconced himself in the room he’d slept in, gripping Declan’s phone and steeling himself as best he could.

He made two calls. First, Boyd’s. Then, the trailer.

Afterwards, he gave Declan his phone back and returned to his room, his desire to see Ronan and Blue vanishing along with his foolish hope that Henrietta, once he returned, would be any different from the cruel, terrible place he’d left behind.

*

Ronan, Gansey and Blue trooped inside, breathless with laugher and dripping with lake water. On the whole, Ronan was elated. All he had to do was get Adam to accept Gansey’s offer which, despite Blue’s reservations, he felt wouldn’t be difficult. After three months stuck in the Greenmantles’ claustrophobic house, Adam would jump at the airy freedom Monmouth offered.

Declan pursed his lips disapprovingly as Ronan dripped all over the kitchen, helping himself to an afternoon snack.

“Adam woke up an hour ago,” Declan said mildly. “I’m surprised he wasn’t out there with you guys.”

Ronan tossed his half-eaten donut onto the countertop. “You could have told me he was awake.”

“He could have told you himself.”

Ronan knocked on Adam’s door lightly, licking frosting off his thumb. The door was partially ajar already so he pushed it open the rest of the way.

Adam had showered; his dusty brown hair was half-dry and curling up at the ends. He was sitting in the center of the bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, his gaze distant and almost trance-like. When he looked up, his expression was unnervingly blank.

“Come outside, Sargent found rope in the garage. We’re gonna build a tree swing.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

The skin on Adam’s nose and cheeks was still red. “When the hell did you get a sunburn?”

Adam absently raised a hand to his cheek, then let it fall. “It’s from the fire. I’m surprised it isn’t worse, actually.”

“Shit, man, you were inside the factory _while_ it was on fire? What the hell?”

“You needed as much energy as I could give you. That’s where it was strongest.”

Adam’s tone was flat and Ronan shrugged, feeling awkward. Adam didn’t say anything for a long moment; just watched Ronan with those intense, unrelenting blue eyes. Waiting for Ronan to leave, maybe.

“I spoke to my parents,” Adam said, his voice still emotionless. “So they know to expect me home.”

Ronan scoffed. “You’re not going back to them.”

“I don’t exactly have many choices.”

“Dude, move into Monmouth. I already talked to Gansey. You’re good.”

Adam stilled. “You… already talked to Gansey,” he repeated, his tone cold.

Irritation spiked through Ronan. Why was Adam acting so distant and weird? “What, you _want_ to go back to the people who literally sold you out to a maniac?“

“You should have asked me first.”

Ronan threw his hand up. “I did! In Gray’s car! I told you, you could live with me and Gansey and you were, like, fine with it-“

“I didn’t think that was a serious offer,” Adam ground out, the muscles in his jaw working.

“I’m telling you now, it’s a serious offer. Gansey talked to Aglionby, too. They’re still holding your spot. So we can-”

“I’m not moving in with you,” Adam interrupted, his Henrietta accent more pronounced than ever. “And I don’t need your friends making phone calls on my behalf. I can handle my own business.”

Anger, hot and roiling, bubbled in Ronan’s gut. “Fine,” he snapped. “Fucking fine, Parrish. Move back in with your asshole parents who treat you like shit. I don’t give a fuck.” He spun and left, slamming the door behind him and instantly regretting it but—fuck, he’d already done it.

Ronan would have stormed out of the house too, but Blue and Gansey were standing in front of the back door, wearing identical expressions of shock, so Ronan marched upstairs to the room he’d shared with Declan and slammed that door, too. He couldn't be around people right now. He was fucking crawling out of his skin, and he felt like--

He felt like he was losing someone, someone he cared about, and it was a feeling he was all-too-familiar with.

When Ronan had kissed Adam in Cabeswater, he’d lain his heart bare, risked it all in a way he’d never really risked anything before. It hadn’t just been a kiss. He’d been asking Adam a question.

_Do you want this? Do you want me?_

Well, it looked like Ronan had his answer.

It wasn’t just Adam’s rejection that had him feeling like he wanted to punch a wall. It was that Adam was returning to people who didn't care about him—people who were maybe just as bad as the Greenmantles. Was Ronan’s offer really so horrible that Adam’s shitty parents seemed like a better alternative?

_You can’t protect anyone._

Ronan threw himself facedown on the bed and pressed a pillow over his ears as though he could block the sound of dream-Adam’s voice echoing in his head. He lay like that for a long time, torn between getting up and wrecking anything breakable he could get his hands on and not letting his anger get the best of him; to prove to Adam—to himself—that he wasn’t some spoiled kid who threw a temper tantrum every time he didn’t get his way.

There was a light knock at the door. Probably Gansey. Sure enough, a moment later, the door creaked opened. Ronan lowered the pillow.

It was Declan, who looked unimpressed. “Are you going to run off?”

“Get out.” Ronan couldn’t summon enough vitriol to put much heat behind the words.

“When you’re upset, you run off and make stupid, rash decisions. I want to remind you that there are dangerous people out there who are looking for you.”

As if Ronan could forget. He scowled.

Declan sighed, impatient. “Why were you fighting with Parrish?”

“Fuck. Off.”

Declan waited, staring down at Ronan. Staring at someone until they gave a real answer was a classic Ronan response, and Ronan did not appreciate that Declan, of all people, was stealing his signature move. Ronan stared back.

“Fucking fine, then _I’ll_ leave,” Ronan finally snapped, throwing the pillow aside as he sat up.

When Declan spoke, his voice was quiet steel and his gaze was fixed just past Ronan's head. “I can tell you... like him, Ronan. I’m not an idiot.” 

Ronan halted, suddenly freezing cold all over.

He wanted to snap back that, yes, _obviously_ he liked Adam, as a _friend_ , big fucking news alert- but any words he might have said were trapped in his throat. Besides… even if it meant Declan was about to disown him forever, Ronan would no longer lie about this. Not to himself, and not to anyone else. Not even to Declan.

He didn’t know what Declan saw on his face because his brother quickly added, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Ronan crossed his arms and barked a single, humorless laugh. Declan telling someone about his delinquent, _gay_ brother was the absolute last thing Ronan was worried about. As if Declan would want Ronan’s existence to ruin his perfect public image any more than it already had.

When Ronan still didn’t speak, Declan continued, “Is that why you’re angry? Because he isn’t… interested?” He clearly couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘gay’.

“How the fuck did you even-“ Ronan cut himself off as he clenched his fists. _How the fuck did Declan know?_

To Ronan’s irritation, Declan sat at the foot of the opposite bed, his body angled away from Ronan. “I’m your brother, Ronan. I know you think I only care about your grades but I care about the rest of you, too.” He didn’t look at Ronan. “The way you were with Kavinsky, I just... I don’t know. I wondered. I knew.”

At Kavinsky’s name, Ronan’s gut twisted with anger, but still, he waited for the axe to fall.

Declan rubbed his hands on his knees, a nervous gesture. Was Declan nervous? It dawned on Ronan, slowly, that Declan wasn’t angry—just uncomfortable. Ronan remained silent, still not trusting the lack of judgmental vitriol from his older brother.

“Look,” Declan finally said in a brusque, commanding tone that told Ronan he was about to be a condescending prick. “I know what unrequited feelings are like. Remember Ashley?”

“Which one?” Ronan asked snidely.

“Benson. The brunette? With the Senator brother?” Declan waved his hand dismissively. “My point is, she broke up with me for Davy Ferguson halfway through junior year. I thought I’d never get over it. Obviously I was wrong. And now we’re even friends again.”

Ronan stared, incredulous. Declan was comparing his love life to Ronan’s; this had to be some kind of waking nightmare. “Get the _fuck_ out, Declan.”

Declan scoffed and stood, facing Ronan properly. “You know what? Wallow in your misery, I couldn’t care less. Just don’t leave the property.” He left in a huff, shutting the door resolutely behind him.

Ronan threw himself back on the bed, feeling deeply annoyed… and something else. He felt…

_Known._

Declan was a dickhead, and if Ronan had to bet on how a conversation about his sexuality would go, he’d have said it would end either with Declan telling Ronan he was going to hell (a possibility Ronan had already considered) or with Declan giving up on Ronan entirely (Ronan had always pretended like that would be a best-case scenario).

But never in a million years would Ronan have dared to imagine a scenario that implied Declan’s unwavering, unblinking acceptance. It didn’t make the sting of Adam’s rejection hurt any less, but… it gave Ronan a strange, complicated, not-completely-terrible feeling.

Later, when he emerged from his room, Adam’s bedroom door was still closed. He found Gansey in the garage, sorting through a pile of scrap wood that Ronan assumed was meant to be firewood.

“Where’s the shrimp?”

“Oh, dear. Don’t call her that to her face. She’s talking to Adam.”

At the mention of Adam’s name, Ronan felt like he’d been sucker punched. Before his thoughts could spiral, Gansey held up a flat plank of wood. “Do you think this would be a good swing seat?”

“Only if you want splinters in your ass.”

“Hm.” Gansey tossed the plank aside. Ronan joined him, mostly for the satisfactory _smack_ each piece of wood made when it was tossed to the cement floor.

Gansey paused, opening his mouth, and Ronan said, “I don’t want to talk about Parrish.”

“Okay.”

So they didn’t talk, and Ronan ignored the concerned looks Gansey kept sending his way as he considered a world in which he didn’t have to hide who he really was from any of the people he cared about, and he wondered, for the first time, whether that world could maybe become a reality. 

*

The Gray Man was enjoying his time at the safe house immensely. He hadn’t realized just how much he needed a break from work until now, and the remote house situated aside the murky lake (whose name no one could pronounce) was providing the perfect place to relax, clear his head… and get to know one Maura Sargent a little better.

Maura proved to be remarkably un-squeamish when he asked for her assistance in removing the shards of dream necklace from his leg. So, too, had she shown real grit as he’d talked her through sewing up the cuts that needed stitches, both in his leg and on Declan Lynch’s forehead.

It seemed the Gray Man’s disposal of Hal (right as the brutish man had been aiming to hurt Maura’s daughter, Blue) had earned the Gray Man a few points with her, and she was open and easygoing as they bought the group’s groceries the afternoon of their arrival (the Gray Man paid) and cooked dinner together afterwards (they followed a recipe passed down to Maura from her grandmother).

Every few hours, the Gray Man would excuse himself to check on the steadily sleeping Adam, walk the perimeter of the house to ensure there were no signs of surveillance and call Seondeok for any updates.

Seondeok was hard at work convincing everyone in their circles that the Gray Man, the Dreamer and the Greenmantles’ psychic had all been tragically killed in Piper’s helicopter accident, though it remained to be seen if the lie would take root as fact. Seondeok was not the type of woman to convey an emotion as predictable as surprise, but she did pause for a long moment when the Gray Man asked her to spread the rumor. After all, there was no reason the Gray Man could not go back to work; even if word that he’d stabbed Colin got around, there would always be a market for hitmen of his skill level.

“You are too young to retire.” Seondeok’s tone was politely inquisitive.

“I’m stepping back from my current line of work to pursue other opportunities.” It went without saying that the life of a hitman was not easy to step away from. Hence the necessity of his “death”.

“So you will go back to teaching at a university?”

“It remains to be seen.”

“Well. I hope that you do not forget those of us who were loyal to you in this time.”

The Gray Man would not forget Seondeok’s generosity, and he also knew she was uninterested in money. He pulled Lynch’s dream necklace from his pocket. The bullet in the center of the enormous dreamed ruby certainly told a story, and the lethal magic of it would appeal to Seondeok’s tastes immensely. He was also relatively certain that the necklace would not be used to strangle anyone else if he gave it to her.

“I’ll be sending a thank you gift your way, soon. Don’t put it on.”

“Take care of yourself, Mr. Gray.”

“You as well.”

In truth, the Gray Man did not know what he was going to do next. There had always been a sense of urgency underscoring every one of his life decisions, but now that his brother was dead, he found he wanted to enjoy himself, do something different. Maybe take up painting. Or gardening.

Anything that didn’t involve bloodshed. 

The Gray Man, Maura and Persephone stayed up late into the night on the eve of their arrival, drinking (cabernet for the two women and seltzer water for the Gray Man) and playing a card game that Maura taught him. The Gray Man was usually very good at card games, but after his third loss in the row he had a feeling that, as the only non-psychic in the group, the cards were probably stacked against him (no pun intended).

Ronan Lynch, when he was awake, was avoidant and moody but had ceased outright hostilities, which was fortunate as the Gray Man had little interest in fighting the teenager. The attitude of the older Lynch, however, was a surprise.

Rather than anger or distrust towards the Gray Man (for which he would not have faulted in the teen), Declan Lynch treated the Gray Man with a remarkably professional deference, inquiring politely about what safety precautions the group should take in the present and what security for Ronan might look like in the future. The Gray Man had a sneaking suspicion that this was the son who had been chosen and trained to take over Niall’s business one day; he would do well in his father’s world of rich, shadowy players, if that was the life he chose. After the events of the past week, there was certainly a power vacuum.

Whether Declan would follow in his father’s footsteps would remain to be seen. For his sake, the Gray Man hoped the teenager would choose differently.

The Gray Man was seated out on the house’s large wrap-around porch, enjoying a mug of Persephone’s herbal concoction on the second day when he overheard the tail end of a shouting match between Adam and Ronan.

Maura looked at him over her own mug and said, gaze pointed, “You should talk to him.” It went without saying that she meant Adam.

The Gray Man raised his eyebrows. “I doubt he wants my assistance.”

“You understand him better than Ronan does.”

So later that afternoon, as the weather cooled and Maura shooed him away from the kitchen so she could start dinner preparations with an obviously reluctant Declan, the Gray Man donned his jacket and went off in search of Adam.

The teenager was seated (elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands) on a weathered wooden bench that overlooked the lake a short distance from the house. He didn’t move as the Gray Man took a seat at the other end of the bench, pulled a slender tin from his jacket pocket and set about rolling a cigarette.

He was about to offer one to Adam when he remembered the boy wasn’t old enough to smoke. “You were asleep for quite awhile.”

Adam lifted his head. His nose and cheeks were sunburned and his expression was pinched and weary. He very much looked like a man fighting a battle known only to himself—one he was losing.

“Declan says you borrowed his phone to call someone in Henrietta.”

“My old boss. I wanted to know if I still had a job.”

“And do you?”

“Yes. I start Monday. So I’ll be able to pay you back.”

“For…?”

“The books you bought me all summer. And the food.”

The notion, while considerate, was entirely misguided. “Adam." He waited for Adam to look over before he continued. "It was wrong for Colin and Piper to hold you in that house against your will. I should have removed you long before I did. I apologize.”

Adam blinked, his expression a little startled. It was possible he had never had an adult apologize to him before.

“You don’t owe me anything,” the Gray Man continued, lighting the end of his cigarette with a satisfying _snick_ of his antique gold-plated lighter. He leaned back and exhaled a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth, angling it away from Adam. Then, he glanced behind them to ensure they were not in view of the house. They weren’t; a boathouse shielded them.

“She’s going to smell it on your clothes. Besides, she’s psychic,” Adam pointed out, interpreting the Gray Man’s concern correctly. There was the barest trace of amusement in his tone.

“True.” The Gray Man frowned at the cigarette for a moment, then placed it back between his lips. Ah, well. Wasn’t transparency a core tenant of friendship, anyway? He wouldn’t know. Whatever was blossoming between him and Maura—it was new to him.

He closed the tin that held his tobacco and slipped it back into his pocket. Declan Lynch had mentioned not one, but two recent calls made to Henrietta. Although this was a topic the Gray Man would rather avoid (and he was sure Adam felt the same), this was, nonetheless, a conversation that probably needed to be had. And if Adam wasn’t going to have it with Ronan Lynch—well. The Gray Man supposed that he would have to do.

“Did you speak to your parents?”

Adam was silent. For a moment, the Gray Man could have sworn the psychic’s eyes blackened out in a haze of murky grey, but it must have been a trick of the light because when the Gray Man looked again, Adam’s eyes were their usual blue.

The teenager’s tone was flat. “Yes.”

“They can’t have been happy to hear Colin is dead. I know he was sending them money.”

The silence stretched and still, Adam’s expression gave nothing away. The Gray Man waited, not wanting to push him, but also unwilling to leave.

Finally, Adam admitted, “My dad is… unhappy.” There was a trace of fear in his voice that most people would not have noticed.

“You do not have to go back to them.”

Adam’s shoulders rose defensively. “What? You think I should move in with Ronan?”

“No. You have other options.”

Adam’s shoulders slowly lowered. When he glanced again at the Gray Man, his expression betrayed a sort of tentative, ragged hope. “Like what?”

In that moment, the Gray Man remembered what it was like to be young, hurt repeatedly by both the action and the inaction of those who held power over you. He spoke carefully, fully aware he should not offer anything he could not help deliver on.

“This school you’re going to attend. I believe they have dorms?”

“My scholarship wouldn’t cover it. I can’t go to Aglionby, anyway. I missed the first payment date.”

This was a shame. From what little he knew, Aglionby offered the best education for a boy Adam’s age.

“Have you considered taking out a personal loan? I would happily co-sign if that’s what you needed.” Not as Dean Allen, of course; the Gray Man had a handful of identities at his disposal. He continued, “And if you want to get your own apartment, the loan could cover that.” 

“I can’t get my own place. I’m only 17.”

“It’s not terribly difficult to obtain paperwork stating otherwise.”

Adam was silent for a long moment, staring out over the serene water. “My dad won’t let me move out,” he finally admitted. His tone was brittle despite the air of nonchalance he was clearly going for. “He lost his job. They need my income. So I just- I just have to wait a year. It’s not a big deal.”

Adam remained motionless as the Gray Man smoked and considered Adam’s predicament. The afternoon had given way to evening, and the sky was tinged with a watery orange. They both watched a flock of geese soar overhead, honking noisily as they fled south for the winter. Adam’s arms were folded, both hands clamped around his upper arms. He wasn’t wearing a jacket.

“Are you cold?”

Adam mutely shook his head.

The Gray Man remembered how tentative and careful Adam always was, how stoically fatalistic he’d always appeared every time Colin or Piper had threatened him, how badly he had flinched every time anyone entered the room unannounced. There had been bruises on Adam’s arms and face when the teenager had first arrived at the Greenmantle house, months prior; they hadn’t been Greenmantle’s doing.

A simple solution occurred to the Gray Man.

“You helped me kill my greatest demon. I would be glad to return the favor.”

It took only a moment for the meaning of his offer to sink in. Adam’s eyes widened and he whipped his head around to stare at the Gray Man.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” the Gray Man said, tapping his cigarette with his thumb to dispel the ash. “Though it’s not very often I offer my services free of charge.”

Adam’s tone was incredulous. “I don’t want you to kill my dad.”

“If you desire to be the one to pull the trigger, I can help you arrange that, too.”

Adam shook his head, as though clearing it after a concussion. “I- no. That’s-” he exhaled a strangled half-laugh. “Thanks, I think, but- no. I don’t want him _dead_.”

The Gray Man inclined his head. “But I _am_ correct in saying you do not wish to return to his home?”

Adam clenched his jaw and jerked his head in the affirmative.

“And your barrier to leaving is gaining his permission?”

“I… yes.”

“You’ll find that I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

Adam looked at the Gray Man’s face searchingly, his eyes a little narrowed.

“I’ll leave your father breathing, if that’s your concern.”

Adam exhaled slowly, the tension finally leaving his shoulders completely. “I want to come with you. To get my stuff.”

“That seems reasonable.” The Gray Man was relieved to have found a solution that Adam would accept, to have succeeded where Lynch had not.

Then, Adam said, uncertainty creeping back into his voice: “Are you sure? About co-signing for a loan?”

“You’ll need to pay it back.”

Adam pressed his lips together. He looked like he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “I know what a loan is.”

“Yes, well. There are very serious consequences to owing the bank money. Why else do you think I turned to a life of crime?”

Adam’s eyes widened for a moment before he realized the Gray Man was joking. This time, he really did roll his eyes, and the Gray Man allowed himself a brief moment of amusement as he snubbed out the butt of his cigarette on the underside of the bench arm and they both rose to return to the house where Maura was calling them in for dinner.

*

Ronan grabbed a plate of spaghetti and, desperate to avoid any interaction with Adam (who was outside somewhere) bolted up to his room. Gansey joined him, sitting cross-legged on Declan’s bed. They ate in silence, listening to the murmur of voices and clinking of silverware downstairs.

Ronan wondered whether Adam would even want to remain friends at Aglionby or if he would want to find different friends altogether. Or, more likely, if he would withdraw from all social interaction and just focus on school. God, Ronan didn’t think he could stand that: seeing Adam at school every day, pretending he didn’t know Adam. Pretending Adam wasn’t important to him.

If only his brain could stop replaying the greatest hits of his time at the Greenmantles on an incessant loop: Hal pressing a knife to Adam’s neck, Ronan dragging Adam from the house as his nightmares clawed out eyes and hair and Adam's voice, broken and small: _please don’t leave me alone with them, I don’t think I can survive it—_

“Ronan?”

Ronan was startled back to the present. Gansey was picking at his food and staring at his plate, lost in his own anxious reverie. “I understand if you don’t want to discuss it. But did- I mean…” he trailed off.

“What?” Ronan grunted.

Gansey looked sick to his stomach. “They- the Greenmantles, I mean- they didn’t hurt you?” He said the words in an awkward rush, glancing at Ronan uncertainly.

Ronan exhaled sharply and leaned back. He’d be perfectly content to never mention the Greenmantles ever again, but he knew Gansey had probably spent the past week envisioning every Worst Case Scenario. Ronan punched his pillow into a comfortable shape with more force than was necessary and lay down, his dinner forgotten.

“Not me. They hurt Adam. To get me to dream,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

Gansey was silent as he digested this terrible bit of news. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Ronan didn’t respond.

“Ronan,” Gansey said, his voice firm.

“You weren’t there,” Ronan said harshly.

“I know.” Gansey’s voice was pained. He put his plate aside and seated himself at the foot of Ronan’s narrow twin bed, resting his hand briefly on Ronan’s ankle, as he’d done countless times in the wake of Niall’s murder. They remained like that for awhile, Ronan staring at the wall, his head resting on his arms, Gansey seated nearby, knowing there was nothing he could say to make Ronan feel any better.

“He had it way worse than me,” Ronan said, his voice low. “I don’t know how he didn’t go insane. He was there for months.” Gansey hummed to let Ronan know he was listening, and Ronan continued. “And he… I…”

Ronan realized, suddenly, that he didn’t want to keep anything back. He was done hiding, done pretending, and besides—if Declan, of all fucking people, already knew, then to not tell Gansey would be paramount to a lie.

He looked at Gansey squarely. “I like Adam.”

“Well, that’s good, seeing as you were cooped up together,” Gansey said, trying for levity. Ronan just continued to stare. Gansey looked back, his expression growing bemused.

After a long moment, Gansey’s eyes widened, slightly. “Oh. You mean-? Oh.”

Ronan’s heart was racing, though he wasn’t sure why. If there was anyone he knew he could trust completely, it was Gansey.

Gansey exhaled a sort of wondrous laugh. When he spoke, his voice was filled with chagrin: “I’m sorry, Ronan. I thought I knew you so well, but you keep surprising me.”

“My fault. I never let you know me.”

Gansey nodded, his expression still apologetic. Then, he seemed to put something together. “Does Adam know how you feel?”

Ronan thought about kissing Adam in Cabeswater. It had felt so right in the moment. He’d known what he wanted, and Adam had seemed sure, too. But maybe Ronan had read the situation wrong. Maybe Adam had simply been caught off-guard. Maybe—and Ronan felt ashamed as it occurred to him—maybe Adam had been so consumed with the ley line’s power coursing through him that he hadn’t known what he wanted, or—even worse—he’d been unable to tell Ronan.

“He knows,” he admitted, feeling uneasy.

Gansey grimaced. “Well, now I understand why he reacted so poorly when you asked him to move in with you. Obviously you didn’t mean it like that, but to him-”

“ _Fuck_.” Ronan slapped a hand over his face. He was a fucking idiot. It hadn’t even occurred to him how… how _presumptuous_ (ha, and Declan thought Ronan didn’t know any SAT words) the offer must have seemed to Adam.

Ronan found himself wishing—for the briefest of insane moments—that he could go back in time. Being a prisoner in the Greenmantle house had been miserable, but he’d never doubted himself around Adam during their time there. How could it be that it was only now, when they were finally free, that he couldn’t seem to communicate like a normal fucking person?

Maybe that was the downside of real life, and why he’d always been terrible at it. When you were concerned with more than just mere survival, it was easy for wires to get crossed, for miscommunications to happen. In true Ronan Lynch fashion, he’d royally fucked things up with Adam. Maybe it was for the best if they didn’t stay friends. Adam deserved better than Ronan could ever give him.

*

_magician... magician... **magician**..._

Adam tossed and turned, green vines creeping up his forearms, winding their way around his throat, clogging his ears—

He bolted upright, scrabbling frantically at his wrists and neck. There was nothing there. The ley line was still screaming in his ears, as it had been off and on for days, and he had to squint past a blinding headache to make out the blue-grey light of dawn between the curtains.

He was losing his mind. There was no other explanation for it.

In the aftermath of his argument with Ronan, he’d felt a mixture of devastation and relief. Devastation that he’d argued with Ronan; relief that he didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t falling apart at the seams. He didn’t want anyone, least of all Ronan, to see that.

He hadn’t meant to treat Ronan’s offer with as much disdain as he had (he’d known, on some level, how much it would anger Ronan), but with the ley line’s insistent whining and his father’s fury fresh in his his mind, he’d wanted nothing more than for someone else to feel the same hopelessness he had been mired in.

The truth was, after an entire summer away from the trailer, the idea of returning to his father’s unpredictable violence and his mother’s tacit approval was intolerable. He had an idea of what it would look like to leave the trailer, one day: head held high, a full-ride scholarship to college, a complete detachment from his parents’ desires and judgment. That vision did not involve Adam scurrying off to stay with someone rent-free.

But Adam’s pride was irrelevant—or, well, largely irrelevant. Leaving the trailer had become impossible for other reasons. Robert Parrish had made it clear over the phone that, in the absence of Colin Greenmantle’s weekly checks, Adam would be expected to continue bringing in money, and there was no way his dad would let his primary source of income walk out the door to go move in with his—whatever Ronan was to Adam.

Which led Adam to the confusing fact of Ronan himself.

What did Ronan expect from Adam? A relationship? Did he truly believe Adam was capable of a commitment like that?

_Love is a sacrifice._

_I know. I choose it anyway._

Adam wasn’t sure what had possessed him to say those words, to reject the ley line’s offer of immortality and unlimited power. He needed time to reflect, to consider what it all meant but he just couldn’t _think_ with so many conflicting desires and emotions and bursts of babbling energy rising within him at random moments, distracting him, driving him to seek solitude where no one else’s energy could add to the cacophony.

His conversation with Mr. Gray had given him a brief reprieve; a sliver of hope for the future that had left him feeling calmer, more centered, less afraid. The man had proven himself to be reliable up until this point, and besides, Adam had seen him drive a knife through Colin Greenmantle’s throat; surely he wouldn’t be intimidated by Adam’s dad.

And if Mr. Gray’s plan didn’t work, and Adam still ended up returning to the trailer for good… well, Adam thought darkly, it was a good thing he wasn’t going to Aglionby with Ronan and Gansey after all, because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hide the results of his dad’s welcome home gift for awhile.

Fear spiked through him. _Stop it_ , he commanded himself. He stared at the streak of steadily-lightening gray outside his window and allowed his attention to drift. Sensing his desire for comfort, his consciousness reached for the strongest point of energy in the house and, drawn like a moth to flame, Adam saw Ronan sprawled in an ungainly heap on the bed upstairs, his energy levels spiking and dropping as he dreamt—

_No._

Adam forced his consciousness back to his body, furious with himself and his moment of weakness. Adam had coldly and cruelly driven Ronan away; Adam didn’t get to miss him. Not when the rift growing between them was Adam’s fault.

He got up and left the bedroom, determined to stay awake now, lest his subconscious betray him again.

He was surprised to find Persephone in the kitchen pouring over a complicated spread of tarot cards. He hadn’t spoken much with her since their arrival at the lake house; he hadn’t spoken much with anyone besides Mr. Gray, actually (though Blue had tried to have a conversation the night before; he’d deftly and politely shut her down).

Persephone was sipping serenely at a mug of something herbal and earthy and she wore a dark terrycloth bathrobe. Her mounds of pale hair spilled over her shoulders and into her face. Before her was a mixing bowl that was filled to the brim with cranberry juice.

“Are you ready now, Adam?” she asked in her small, gentle voice, and he felt pinned beneath her dark, steady gaze.

“For what?”

She gestured to the bowl and said, “You are letting the ley line communicate on its terms, but you are comprised of more than energy. You are flesh, and intellect. You require order to function. It is the very nature of being human.”

“How do I get it to stop?” Adam asked desperately as trees unfurled their leaves in his minds eye, pressing insistently on the edges of his consciousness.

Persephone seemed to have reached her quota of words for the day, though, because she simply stepped aside, allowing Adam to approach the bowl.

Then, she reached out a hand, and Adam took it, and together, they scried.

*

He re-emerged from the ley line minutes—or perhaps days—later. He was disoriented. He couldn’t remember what he called himself. He was holding the hand of a strange woman with puffy white hair; he’d forgotten what she called herself, too.

He was in a… place he could not name, a place where humans cooked. A kitchen. He was standing in a kitchen, and he was human, and his name was Adam and the woman was—

“Persephone,” he said, his voice hoarse as though he’d been shouting.

She handed him the mug she’d been carrying earlier, and he took a gratifying drink. The herbal concoction soothed his throat and sharpened his attention.

His mind was quiet and entirely his own. He sagged into the nearest chair with relief. He wasn’t quite sure what he and Persephone had done, exactly, other than travel through a jumbled blend of energy planes and personal memories; she’d continuously cautioned: _look_ _outside yourself, Adam._

“You will need to begin communicating with the ley line regularly,” Persephone advised. “Or it will get quite bad again. I will assist you.” Then she yawned, and said, “I suppose it’s time for bed.”

“It’s almost six in the morning,” Adam said, glancing at the stovetop clock.

“Is it? I suppose I forgot to sleep. Good night, Adam,” she said serenely, laying her hand briefly on his shoulder. “Seek what grounds you to this world and cling to it.”

And with that bit of esoteric advice, she was gone, and Adam found that he missed her kind, guiding presence almost immediately.

The house was quiet but for the quiet padding of Persephone’s bare feet on the carpet upstairs, and Adam was examining the strange art on Persephone’s tarot cards when he heard a faint creaking sound from outside. Warily, he stood.

Adam stepped onto the front porch. Ronan's energy radiated heat in the chilly early morning air. His arms were crossed and he pushed against the railing with a bare foot, rocking the porch swing he sat on. His eyes flicked to Adam’s face and away.

Adam approached and lifted himself onto the wide wooden railing so that he was facing Ronan at a diagonal. Ronan looked terrible, like he hadn't gotten very much sleep.

Adam took a deep breath, readying himself for the inevitable, painful loss he was about to experience. It wasn’t often that he willingly sought pain, but he was thinking clearly for the first time in days, and despite all the uncertainties in the other areas of his life, this was one thing he knew for sure.

“I’m not in a good place, right now,” he admitted.

Ronan raised his eyebrows, like _no shit._

“The whole thing with the ley line is just- I’m going crazy. Persephone said she’ll teach me to control it, but it could take awhile. And… I need to figure everything else out. School. And my-” He hesitated. “My living situation.” He didn’t explain further, and was thankful when Ronan didn’t press him to.

He forged onward. “I’m not ready for... a relationship. I’m sorry, Ronan.” Adam had given it a great deal of thought, and the conclusion he'd reached was this: Ronan Lynch was not someone who did 'casual'. He gave one hundred percent of himself to his convictions, and he deserved someone who could devote the same amount of time and attention and energy in return.

Adam swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I like you. It’s… scary how much I like you, actually. So it's not that.”

Ronan’s clear blue eyes snapped to meet Adam’s, and Adam felt his face heat up under the intensity of the other teen’s gaze. How had he never before appreciated just how devastatingly handsome Ronan Lynch was? He looked at the ground so his resolve wouldn’t weaken.

“But I just can’t be with anyone right now. I mean, I don’t have anything to give. I wish…” He blinked rapidly, willing himself not to cry. His emotions had been so much closer to the surface these past few days; it was infuriating. “I wish we’d met in the future. After I had everything already figured out. I’m sorry.”

Ronan had allowed the creaking bench to stop, so the only sound was the light rustle of dry leaves above them.

Ronan knocked Adam’s foot lightly with his own. Startled, Adam looked up, blinking away the blurriness.

“It’s fine,” Ronan said. His expression was fierce but not with anger.

Adam stared, uncomprehending.

Ronan shrugged. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

Adam grimaced. He obviously wasn’t making himself clear. “It could take a long time, Ronan. I’m- my life is really messed up right now.”

“Ask me if I’ll wait for you.”

“I don’t expect you to-”

“Ask me, Adam.” Ronan’s tone was level and firm. His expression made him look like an adult instead of the teenager he still very much was. Adam wondered if he himself ever appeared so mature, so grown up, so capable of making his own decisions.

Adam looked at Ronan.

Ronan looked steadily back.

“Would you… want to wait for me?” Adam finally asked, hardly daring to hope.

“Yes,” Ronan said simply, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Are we good now? Because I need someone to vent to about my fucking brother and Gansey’s sick of hearing about it.”

Adam felt light-headed with happiness that had nothing to do with how much Ronan’s brother annoyed him. “What’d he do?”

“He comes in last night and says he wants me to move in with him. To the Aglionby fucking dorms.”

“Well, would that be safer for you?”

“Jesus, I should’ve known you’d be on his side. Traitor.”

Adam slid from the railing and sat on the rocking bench beside Ronan. Ronan flipped his hand and Adam automatically took it, tentatively resting his head on Ronan’s shoulder as the dreamer’s warm, solid energy settled comfortingly over him like a physical weight.

He realized he hadn’t lost Ronan after all; of course he hadn’t. Why did Adam constantly assume the worst about him? It said more about Adam than it did about Ronan.

Ronan tilted his head so it was resting on Adam’s.

“Why are you up so early?” Adam asked.

“Nightmares,” Ronan muttered. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s really not.”

Ronan rubbed his thumb absently against the back of Adam’s hand. “When I asked about Monmouth, I didn’t mean to… fuck, I don’t know. Pressure you.” Adam tensed, but remained where he was. Ronan continued, voice harsh in a way that told Adam he was hurting but trying not to show it: “I just don’t want you to get hurt anymore, Adam.”

Adam closed his eyes. “I know.”

He drifted off as the world lightened around them, and he couldn’t be sure, but he thought Ronan might have eventually dozed off, too, his grip on Adam’s hand never lessening.

*

When Adam woke again, the morning sun was bright and pans clattered loudly in the kitchen. With Ronan’s solid energy grounding him, his nap had been peaceful and uninterrupted by the ley line. Ronan shifted. Adam made a soft noise of disapproval.

“My shoulder can’t be _that_ comfortable.”

“It’s not,” Adam assured him, cracking his neck and stretching. “Your energy is just so _strong_. Stronger than the ley line’s.”

“I swear, Parrish, I’m convinced you only like me for my energy.”

Adam cracked a brief grin and allowed Ronan to pull him to his feet.

Inside, Gansey was helping Blue make pancakes. He glanced between Adam and Ronan, and Ronan jerked his head like _what?_ Gansey just smiled widely at them both.

“Jane wants to petition her mother to spend another week here,” Gansey said, cheerfully dumping too much batter on the frying pan.

“Jane?” Adam asked.

Blue’s voice was irritated. “He thinks it’s funny to call me the wrong name.”

“I’m gonna call you Maggot,” Ronan announced, and Blue squawked in protest.

“See what you’ve started, Gansey?”

“Calm down, Maggot,” Ronan said. Then: “What the hell, Sargant!” as Blue socked him in the arm with a flour-covered fist.

Trying to show solidarity with Blue, Adam suppressed his smile. Ronan caught his eye, smirking.

The four of them brought their breakfast out to the dock. As they ate, Blue unearthed a chapstick-shaped healing cream Ronan had dreamt for her, and Adam looked it over in interest.

“We should try it on your face burns,” Blue suggested.

Ronan shrugged. “Might work.”

It didn’t, but Blue greatly enjoyed smearing the paste all over Adam’s face, and he had to go wash it off with a handful of lake water after his skin started tingling unpleasantly.

“Speaking of magical dreams,” Gansey piped up. “Exactly what kind of magic did you give the rain the other day?”

Ronan shrugged and glanced at Adam. “Einstein?”

“It wasn’t my dream, Ronan.”

“Yeah, but you told me to bring it back with me. You must’ve known what it did.” Adam wondered whether Ronan was remembering what else had transpired in Cabeswater; he certainly was.

Adam re-focused his attention on the rain. “Well, I guess I knew it would force a person to confront the truth about who they really were, deep down.”

“It affected everyone so differently,” Gansey mused.

“It didn’t seem to affect Piper Greenmantle at all,” Blue pointed out. 

“That’s because she was a soulless harpy and never pretended to be anything else,” Ronan snapped.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Ronan bared his teeth at her and she bared her teeth right back. Adam rather thought they might be becoming friends.

The four of them passed the morning in lazy camaraderie, talking about school and movies Adam had never seen and places none of them had been except for Gansey. Ronan and Blue bickered in a way that was quickly becoming routine, and Adam lay down on the dock, relishing the sun on his face (he’d missed the sun more than anything else while at the Greenmantle’s) and the whisper of the water below them. He could feel the pull of the ley line inside of him, faint but ever-present.

Declan eventually marched over to announce that Gray had deemed it safe to leave. Adam trooped inside with the others to pack his meager belongings, which amounted to a toothbrush Maura had given him and some too-small clothes Blue had lent him.

Fifteen minutes later, he was seated on the front porch, waiting for the others and trying to quell his nervousness about returning to Henrietta. Blue exited the house, the screen door closing behind her with a clatter. 

“You know we care about you, right? Me and my mom and Persephone?” she asked him without preamble.

Adam remembered how definitively he’d blown her off the night before. Shame washed over him. “Blue, I’m really-“

“Just tell us what you need, and we’ll help you,” she interrupted, and Adam’s pride prickled but he couldn’t help a simultaneous rush of warmth at her words.

“I don’t want to-“

“I know, I know, you don’t want anyone’s help. Well, newsflash: no one likes asking for help. But humans are social creatures; we rely on each other to survive. That’s what my mom always says. She also says you can come over anytime. I know that’s like, horribly offensive to you, but I don’t care. You’re my friend, and I’m gonna keep being your friend even when you don’t like it. Deal with it.”

Adam was stunned in the wake of her proclamation. He opened his mouth to say _thank you_ or maybe _I’m sorry_ but the words got stuck somewhere inside and to his embarrassment, he found himself blinking rapidly against a swell of emotion for the second time that morning.

Blue’s expression softened and she leaned down, engulfing him in a fierce hug and tucking her head of spiky hair under his chin. She didn’t let go until he’d raised his arms in return.

She pulled away and, with a watery grin, wiped under his eyes with her sleeve, then at her own. They didn’t say anything more as the rest of the group emerged from the house and began loading up the cars.

There was still so much uncertainty in Adam’s future, but as he settled into the back of the SUV between Ronan and Blue, both of their energies wrapping him securely and grounding him to the present and keeping the ley line’s insistent pull at bay, he felt, for the first time in months, a twinge of optimism.

Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No seriously holy SHIT I can't believe I finally finished this chapter!! Thanks to everyone who stuck around, major shoutout if you even remember what happened in this fic up until now. 
> 
> This chapter got to be 20k words long so! Guess what! We're getting a another chapter! And a PROLOGUE**! Wow it's Christmas/secular equivalent come early.
> 
> **days after posting I realized by “prologue” I actually meant EPILOGUE but in my excitement I conflated the two words. I realize this probably doesn’t inspire much confidence in me as a master of the English language but I’m leaving my mistake up as a testament to my crime lololol. 
> 
> Scream at me on tumblr [philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/)


	12. twelve

The drive to Virginia was actually kind of fun. Blue controlled the playlist and spent the entire time debating with Ronan about what constituted ‘decent’ music. Gansey turned out to be surprisingly easy to talk to, and Adam got caught up in an engrossing discussion about Welsh history that Declan sparingly contributed to, prompting Ronan to disdainfully christen them all “giant boring fucking nerds”.

Before Adam knew it, they were pulling in to a rest stop 45 minutes from Henrietta so Blue could switch cars to return home with her mom and aunt. As everyone else piled out of the SUV to stretch or buy snacks from a vending machine, Ronan jumped into the driver’s seat and began cycling through radio stations. Adam folded his arms across the back of the passenger seat.

“I was thinking I’d stay with you and Gansey for a few days until I can find my own place,” Adam said, his pride stinging a little. “If your offer’s still open.”

“It’s always open,” Ronan said immediately, eyes slightly narrowed as he finally punched the radio off. He leaned back and exhaled noisily.

Adam had overheard the loud, uneasy truce that Ronan and Declan had reached shortly before leaving the safe house: Ronan would be allowed to continue living with Gansey so long as he kept his phone on him at all times and permanently shared its location with Declan. _“Joke’s on him,”_ Ronan had snarled to Adam once out of his brother’s earshot. _“I lost my phone ages ago and I’m sure as hell not buying another one.”_

Silence lapsed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Ronan was staring out the windshield, his gaze a little distant as he gnawed at one of his leather bracelets. Adam wondered if he wasn’t the only one feeling trepidation about returning to his old life.

“Mr. Gray is going to take me to my parent’s house, first. To get my clothes and everything.”

Ronan’s gaze flicked to Adam's face. “Want me to come with?” The fact that he was willing to put himself in an enclosed space with Mr. Gray spoke volumes.

“That’s all right. I’d rather no one kill the other en route.” Plus, Adam would rather die himself than let Ronan glimpse the trailer park he’d been raised in. It was bad enough Mr. Gray was going to see it.

Ronan nodded and scribbled his address on the back of a business card he plucked from the center console. He handed it to Adam, still gnawing at his bracelets.

“Thanks. I’ll see you tonight, then,” Adam said, sliding from Declan's SUV to join Mr. Gray. He could feel Ronan’s gaze on him, heavy as a physical force, but he didn’t look back as he climbed into the dark Corolla.

The last thing he wanted to do was to go back to the trailer, especially with the somewhat exciting prospect of staying with Ronan and Gansey on the horizon, but Adam also couldn’t relax, couldn’t move forward with his life without knowing if he was really free. He turned over possible outcomes in his mind, feeling distinctly nauseous as Mr. Gray exchanged good-byes with Maura and started up the car.

As they drove, Mr. Gray seemed overly taken with the quaintness of the Shenandoah Valley, asking Adam questions about the population size and what types of produce was grown in the region. Adam supposed the long fields of yellowed cornstalks and vibrant fall foliage gave Henrietta a certain charm to those who didn’t know any better. They turned onto the cracked, single lane road that would lead them to Adam’s childhood home and Adam tried to view the area from Mr. Gray’s perspective. He was certain he would judge Adam for his white trash roots, but the man’s expression didn’t change even as the size and overall value of the homes they passed steadily diminished. 

“I apologize in advance for anything my parents might say to you.”

“No apology necessary."

The ley line must have sensed Adam’s unease, because with every passing mile the hum inside him became more and more insistent. Finally, just when the sound of rushing water was reaching a nearly unbearable volume, Adam exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and relaxing into the ley line’s call, just as Persephone had shown him. Green, forested imagery leapt to the forefront of his mind’s eye. He felt damp, porous dirt beneath his feet, lush vines working their way up his forearms, the echo of a waterfall thumping in his chest like a heartbeat—

_magician magician magician_

The car stopped. Adam blinked, his vision clearing.

Mr. Gray was staring, brow creased, at a single purple orchid that had emerged from between the slats of the vehicle's air vents. A little breathless, Adam ran his fingers along the flower’s petals, his unhappiness nearly forgotten in the face of this simple, wondrous marvel.

He glanced up. They were parked in front of his parents’ doublewide.

“How did you know where to go?” Adam asked.

“You were giving me directions,” Mr. Gray said, eying Adam with the sort of polite puzzlement one might show a complete stranger who had just declared the earth was flat. Adam hastily gave himself a mental shake and opened the car door. He needed to get a grip.

He found himself observing his childhood home with an almost clinical detachment: the sun-bleached vinyl siding, the dirty windows, the potted plants that had, in his absence, withered and died. It was as though he was watching a movie from his youth; a movie he had once deemed acceptable but was finding didn’t quite hold up now that he was older and had seen better films.

He climbed the creaky wooden steps and paused, hand on the knob of the flimsy aluminum door. Instead of opening it, he knocked, anxiety returning despite the brief respite the ley line had offered him. Behind him, Mr. Gray waited, his expression betraying none of the condescension or judgment Adam had feared it would.

Then the door flew open, and Adam was suddenly face-to-face with his dad.

Adam was first struck by the critical glint in the man's eyes, which were bloodshot in a way that told him he’d been drinking. His dad's skin was weathered and reddened from years of alcohol abuse and his uneven, scruffy beard was flecked with spots of grey that Adam had never noticed before. Fear and panic warred in Adam’s chest, but as he stared at the man’s face—at once familiar and foreign to him—he realized that his dad did not loom quite as tall as Adam remembered.

In fact, Adam found he was on eye level with the man. Had Adam grown in the past three months? Or was this merely the first time he wasn’t cowering in his presence?

“What the hell happened, Adam?” his dad slurred. “I set you up with a good job, now you’re telling me you lost it, what did-“

“I’m here to get my things,” Adam interrupted, a bit amazed at his own boldness despite the fear coursing through him. “I’m moving out.”

“Like hell you are.”

“I suggest you let us inside,” Mr. Gray said, though his tone indicated that his words were anything but a suggestion.

“You brought a fuckin’ lawyer?”

Adam stared his dad in the eye—the first time he’d ever done so—and stepped forward, crowding the man.

To his immense surprise, Robert Parrish moved backwards, uncertainty flashing across his features for a brief moment before they settled, once again, into a scowl. Adam entered the trailer.

The aura of stale cigarette smoke was more suffocating than Adam remembered it ever being before. A new, big screen TV displayed sports highlights and sleek leather armchairs had replaced the musty couch he’d grown up with.

In the kitchen, his mom leaned against the stove where a pot of soup bubbled. Her long hair framed her face in limp strands and her thin, tired frame seemed to fold in on itself. Had she always looked this old?

As her eyes flickered to him, her pinched, disapproving expression was the only familiar thing about her. “You need a haircut.”

“I missed you too, Mom,” Adam said quietly. Elaine Parrish pressed her lips together and looked away, unable to hold her son's gaze.

Adam hadn’t let himself think about this before—it had been too painful—but now, he wondered whether his parents had ever bothered to check in on him over the summer. If they’d asked Greenmantle what, exactly, his job would entail and whether he’d be clothed and fed. If they’d even known whether he was alive. He thought he knew the answer, though. Months earlier, this realization would have crushed him, but now he felt nothing but cold, simmering indignation.

“Well? You got anything to say for yourself?” Robert moved to grab Adam’s upper arm. Something in his son’s expression stopped him, though, or maybe it was the fact that Mr. Gray was now flanking Adam, looking down on Robert with the expression of a man who had sized up his opponent and found him wanting.

Robert settled for crossing his arms and jutting out his chin. “Your mother and I decided. Whatever happened between you and Greenmantle, you need to work it out.”

“That won’t be possible,” Mr. Gray said, tone bland. “Colin Greenmantle is dead.”

“Dead?” That was Adam’s mom. “What happened?”

“I killed him.” Adam's parents stared at the hitman. Mr. Gray turned to Adam. “Do you need help getting your things?”

“No,” Adam said shortly. Mr. Gray didn’t need to see Adam’s room, where the only furniture was a mattress and a chest of drawers that leaned to one side. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

It took him less time than that to throw his clothing, books and a few mementos into a backpack and a black trash bag. When he re-entered the living room, Mr. Gray was still standing on the threshold, looking supremely unconcerned while Adam’s dad postured and huffed. His mom had disappeared out the back door; her survival instincts always had been second to none. Adam swallowed down the bitter disappointment.

Robert Parrish jumped in front of Adam, finger stabbing the air. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Adam’s whereabouts and well-being are no longer your concern, Robert.”

Adam gripped the strap of his backpack as his dad advanced, his body locking up entirely. His thoughts raced: _Don’t blink—say you’re sorry—don’t back down—tell him whatever he wants to hear—_

And then Mr. Gray had Robert by the collar and was throwing the man bodily onto one of the leather armchairs.

“The fuck- You come into _my house_ -!“ Robert broke off, spluttering incoherently as Mr. Gray pressed his dark handgun painfully into his throat; Adam himself didn't breathe.

“I don’t think you quite grasp what’s happening here,” Mr. Gray said, voice low and dangerous. He eyed Robert dispassionately for a long minute, then seemed to come to a decision. “There’s one thing I need from you, Robert. Your wedding ring.”

“My- the hell-?”

“I’ll give it back,” Mr. Gray assured him, clicking the gun’s safety off.

Robert yanked the tarnished metal band off his finger and slammed it into Mr. Gray’s outstretched palm, his expression murderous.

“Very good,” Mr. Gray said, sliding the band onto his left ring finger. “Adam, come here, please.”

Bewildered, Adam stepped forward. Mr. Gray inspected his face closely. “That scar there,” he said, indicating the thin, nearly imperceptible scar that dented Adam’s right eyebrow. “This came from him?” 

Slowly, realization dawning, Adam nodded. 

Something in Mr. Gray’s expression hardened. Then he spun and punched Robert viciously in the face, a wet _smack_ reverberating through the trailer as Robert’s head snapped sideways. The rage-fueled monster inside of Adam roared its approval as blood gushed from his dad's brow where the ring had connected.

“Thank you,” Mr. Gray said, removing the ring and placing it on the coffee table. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter and tin of cigarettes. “Right or left side?” he asked conversationally.

When there was no response, he looked over to Adam, cheeks momentarily hollowing as he lit his cigarette. “The cigarette burn on your shoulder,” he clarified, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “I can’t remember. Is it on your right or left side?”

Adam raised a hand to his left collarbone, where his dad had burned him in a fit of drunken anger the previous summer. Mr. Gray nodded curtly and jabbed the gun under Robert’s chin as he raised his lit cigarette with the other hand.

“The fuck’re you doing,” Robert Parrish growled, hands scrabbling uselessly as he shrunk into the armchair. He looked to his son, expression pleading, and Adam was hit with the staggering realization that his dad was afraid. Adam’s savage vindication faltered, then fled altogether.

Suddenly, he just felt very, very tired. “Mr. Gray. That’s enough.”

The hitman paused. “I’m not doing anything he hasn’t already done to you.”

“I know.” He met Mr. Gray’s gaze steadily. “But we got what we came for. I’m free of him. Let’s just go.” 

Mr. Gray tilted his head. “It’s your choice.” He holstered his gun and looked down on Robert. “The only reason you’re still alive is because Adam argued for your life.” He let that sink in before he continued: “I’ll be around. If you come for Adam, if you seek him out, if you so much as breathe in his direction, I will kill you. There will be no witnesses. Your wife will never find a body to bury. Do you understand?”

Robert bared his teeth. “If you fucking think-” 

Mr. Gray smacked him; Robert whined pathetically. “This is not a discussion. It is a simple yes or no question. From here on out, Adam is no longer your concern. Do you understand?” When there was still no response, he lowered his lit cigarette towards the man’s cheek. 

“Yes! Yes, I got it, fuck you!” Robert Parrish whimpered before the cigarette could make contact.

“Very good,” Mr. Gray said, leaning back. “I expect that Adam will be given the money he earned this summer,” he continued. 

“I- that’s- we don’t have it-”

“I figured that was the case,” Mr. Gray said mildly, eying the brand new flat-screen TV. “Which is why I’ll be back next week to collect it.”

Mr. Gray put his hand-rolled cigarette out on the arm of the leather chair and tucked it into the tin, closing it with a smart _click_. He moved towards the door.

Rather than follow Mr. Gray, Adam put his trash bag down and stepped towards his dad. He waited until the man warily looked up at him.

Robert’s right eye was already swelling shut and blood was dribbling into his scraggly beard. He had been the villain of Adam’s childhood, but now Adam had held his own against real villains (murderers and kidnappers and thieves) and he was seeing Robert Parrish the way Mr. Gray must view him: as a weak, pathetic man who grasped at the notion of authority because, in reality, he was powerless.

“You were a terrible father,” Adam said simply. “I’m going to work hard to make sure I don’t turn out anything like you.”

Robert’s dazed expression morphed into indignation. “You- fuckin’ ungrateful-”

“I wasn’t finished,” Adam said, and he felt a surge of cold, resolute energy as the ley line rushed to his defense, amplifying his words so that they echoed unnaturally loud in the small room. Robert flinched.

“I’m going to accomplish a lot in my life,” Adam continued, feeling the hard-won truth of the words as he spoke them. “And every achievement, every victory, will be despite of you, not because of anything you or Mom ever did for me.”

Adam looked down at the furious, cowering man before him, and although there was a great deal more he wanted to say, he realized it would fall on deaf ears.

That was all right. This wasn’t about his parents, anyway. They no longer held any power over him; in fact, they would be merely a footnote in the grander story of Adam’s life, a life that was slowly unfolding before him in his mind’s eye, stretching long and glorious and full of possibilities.

“Good bye, Robert,” Adam said.

He turned and met Mr. Gray’s eye, feeling a rush of gratitude towards the hitman. Mr. Gray nodded approvingly and the corner of Adam’s mouth lifted wryly. 

Adam crouched and picked up the bulky trash bag that carried most of his worldly possessions. Then he walked past Mr. Gray and out of the trailer, his head held high, never to return again.

*

They stopped at the Henrietta general store so Adam could get a free copy of the Gazette. As they made their way to Monmouth Manufacturing, he poured over the apartment listings and tried to calculate his budget; he needed to talk to Boyd about how many hours he could work each week. Maybe he would get a second job.

“I wouldn’t recommend anything on the ground floor,” Mr. Gray said as Adam circled a listing he thought sounded promising. “Or anywhere too remote. A second floor unit in town would be best.”

“Why?”

“It minimizes the opportunity for unwanted visitors to come calling.”

Adam grimaced. “Greenmantle’s people think I’m dead. You think one of them would still try to track me down?”

“I was thinking about your father. But, yes, there is a chance one of Colin’s colleagues could come poking around, some day.”

Either prospect made Adam nervous. He drummed his fingers on his knee. “How long will you be in town for?” Mr. Gray had made it seem like he’d be there for another week at the very least, but maybe he’d only said that to threaten Adam’s dad.

“I’m not sure yet,” Mr. Gray said noncommittally. “I’m certainly interested to see if it’s as charming as Maura makes it sound. What do you think?”

“You want my opinion about Henrietta?” Adam asked. Mr. Gray inclined his head, glancing in the car’s side mirror as he switched lanes. Adam thought about it for a moment. The idea of Mr. Gray living nearby for awhile, keeping an eye on things, was surprisingly calming, and while the ley line’s call was stronger here than it had been in Boston, Adam thought he could maybe get used to the constant energy thrumming beneath his skin.

“I always hated living here. But…” he ran a finger along the petals of the ley line’s impossible orchid in front of him, thinking about Mr. Gray, about Ronan, about having a place to call his own. “Maybe that could change.”

*

Declan drove them to the witches coven where Blue Sargent lived so they could pick up Matthew, who clung to Ronan for fifteen minutes straight, crying incoherently into his shoulder as Ronan repeatedly assured his younger brother that he was 1) “fine” and 2) “Jesus, Matty, I said I’m fine, you’re getting snot on my shirt.”

It was kind of a relief to reach Monmouth. Ronan was happy to see Matthew, of course, but it was also uncomfortable—even painful—to see how distraught the kid was. Ronan swore up and down that he wouldn’t leave Gansey’s side for the night and that he’d see Matthew tomorrow (though he avoided saying _where_ he would see his brother, as Ronan had no intention of attending Aglionby the following day--or ever again, in fact). Finally pacified, Matthew gave Ronan one last, fierce hug and agreed to return to the Aglionby dorms with Declan.

In anticipation of Adam’s arrival, Ronan helped Gansey drag their enormous couch to a corner of the second floor. They dug up an old comforter of Gansey’s and Ronan sacrificed his second pillow; really, the whole set-up was kind of pathetic. Gansey half-heartedly suggested they hang a sheet to afford Adam some measure of privacy, but they couldn’t find one.

Ronan hoped Adam wouldn’t care. At least there’d be plenty of food; Gansey had gone completely overboard and ordered five pizzas (“we have no idea what toppings he likes!”) and Ronan found himself feeling weirdly restless as evening fell. Gansey’s phone buzzed with a new text every ten minutes.

“Jesus, fuck, tell him to back off.”

Gansey just adjusted his wire-framed glasses and tapped out a quick reply to assure Declan that all was well before returning to his miniature model of Henrietta.

Adam finally arrived, toting only a battered backpack and a trash bag. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but there was a satisfied set to his jaw as he took in the cavernous warehouse and placed his meager items on the couch, so Ronan guessed that everything had gone down the way Adam wanted it to.

Over pizza and Dr. Pepper, Gansey and Adam started up their boring history conversation again (of _course_ Adam was interested in Gansey’s quest for Glendower, really Ronan should just go to bed and leave them to it) and Ronan paged through a newspaper Adam had brought with him.

“And you’re sure Glendower reached the New World?” Adam was asking, his brow furrowed.

“As sure as we can be about anything from that time period-“

“Hey, that’s at my church,” Ronan interrupted, pointing to an apartment listing in the _Gazette_ that was circled in blue ink. “I can talk to Father Antony on Sunday, if you want.”

“I’m not sure if that would help or hinder me,” Adam said, half-joking. “But… okay. Thanks.” Ronan nodded sharply in return.

After dinner, they gave Adam a full tour of the factory. It was downright weird to watch Adam move through Monmouth, silently absorbing both the space around them and Gansey’s enthusiasm for Henrietta. At first, Ronan couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t _that_ surprising that Adam and Gansey were getting along so well; in fact, Ronan had predicted it. So it wasn’t their friendship that had Ronan feeling like he’d stepped into a strange, alternate universe.

It was more that up until now, Adam had existed entirely outside of the confines of Ronan’s regular life. The last week could have easily been written off as a nightmare (a nightmare Ronan really wanted to forget), but Adam’s undeniable presence at Monmouth proved good things had happened in the past week, too, and Ronan was struggling to reconcile the entire experience. 

Later, as Adam and Gansey got ready for bed, Ronan fed Chainsaw bits of pepperoni while listening to electronica at full volume on his stereo. The volume suddenly lowered and Ronan turned. Adam had entered his room unannounced, which was normally an unforgivable offense but Ronan found he didn’t mind much.

Adam nodded at Ronan’s pet. “What’s her name?”

“Chainsaw. Chainsaw, meet Adam.”

Chainsaw croaked, “ _Atom._ ” With a light flurry of feathers she took flight and landed neatly on top of Adam’s head, hopping around alertly.

Adam looked uncertain, then amused. “Your bird has terrible manners, Lynch.”

“She would. I dreamt her.”

“You did?” Adam started to crane his head upwards, trying to catch another glimpse of the raven. Chainsaw croaked her disapproval and nipped at the top of his ear.

“ _Ow_.”  
  
“Yeah, sorry,” Ronan said, not feeling very sorry at all as Chainsaw hopped to Adam’s shoulder and butted her head against Adam’s chin. “She’s an asshole.”

“If she came out of your head, I guess I’m not surprised.”

Ronan handed him the rest of the peperoni slices and Adam hesitantly offered a piece to Chainsaw, a smile working its way resolutely across his face as she accepted his gift. Ronan’s heart beat insistently in his chest as Adam lifted a slender finger to Chainsaw’s feathers. Chainsaw preened.

“How’d it go. With your parents and everything.” Ronan hated that he was asking, because if Adam wanted to talk about it then he would have brought it up himself, but the not-knowing had been bugging Ronan all evening.

Adam carefully gave Chainsaw another morsel of food, his fingers deftly avoiding her sharp beak. “Mr. Gray scared the shit out of them.” He glanced at Ronan to gauge his reaction, but the mention of the hitman didn’t cause the surge of anger in Ronan that it usually did and Adam continued. “I don’t think they’ll bother me anymore. Mr. Gray’s gonna go back next week to get the money Greenmantle sent them. They’ve already spent a lot of it, but… better than nothing, I guess. So I can use that to get my own place.” 

Ronan grunted his approval, even though his gut twisted unpleasantly at the reminder that Adam would be leaving soon. Adam must have seen something on Ronan’s face, because his forehead creased, like he was solving a difficult math problem and Ronan was a piece of the equation he couldn’t figure out. When he spoke, his voice was carefully measured.

“I… do appreciate you offering to let me live here. I just… I’ve spent my whole life having my choices taken away from me. Even before the Greenmantles. I need to have my own life. It’s not that I’m trying to get away from you, specifically.”

“I get it, man,” Ronan said, and it wasn’t _entirely_ a lie, though it tasted like one.

“I’m not sure you do.”

Ronan shrugged. Realizing there was no more food to be had, Chainsaw took flight from Adam’s shoulder and soared out the open window into the night. Ronan threw himself across the foot of his bed, swinging an arm over his face. To his surprise, Adam followed, hefting himself onto the mattress and leaning against the wooden headboard. Ronan’s music thudded in the background until Adam leaned over and switched it off entirely.

Then he tilted his head and watched Ronan calmly, waiting as Ronan collected his thoughts.

Finally, Ronan muttered, “It’s just… no one else gets it. You know. The last week. We’ve spent so much time together. So now it’s like… with school and everything, we’re never gonna see each other.” He felt his cheeks heat up at the admission. God, he was pathetic.

He chanced a look at Adam. Adam had raised his hand to his face and was pressing his pointer and middle finger to his eyes. When he lowered it, Ronan was surprised to see the corners of his lips were turned upwards in a smile.

“Something funny, Parrish?”

“You’re upset because you’ll miss me? It’s really that simple?”

Ronan shrugged, feeling defensive. “That really so hard to believe?”

Adam shook his head. “You, and Mr. Gray, and Blue… I don’t know what I did to deserve you all.”

“You’re view on friendship is fucked.”

Adam’s expression turned rueful. “I’m starting to realize that. I don’t think I make for a very good friend.”

“Fuck off.”

Adam did smile all the way then, the corners of his eyes creasing in a way that somehow made him look much older than seventeen, and Ronan derived a sort of vicious pleasure for being the cause of it. His smile faded and his brow creased again, morphing into his math-problem-solving expression. He said, “I guess it _will_ be weird not sleeping in the same room as you anymore. I got used to the snoring.”

“I don’t snore."

“How would you know?” Adam shot back. He yawned. “I should go to bed. School tomorrow.”

“Stay.”

The word had darted from Ronan’s lips before he’d given it permission to. He quickly tacked on, tone indifferent, “If you want. Gansey’s couch sucks.”

He thought Adam would refuse on principle, or misunderstand Ronan’s request and get offended, but he merely tilted his head again and said, “Okay.”

Something settled inside of Ronan as Adam shifted to pull the covers free and made himself comfortable. Ronan hadn’t wanted to say it out loud (because, Christ, he wasn’t five years old and Adam probably already thought he was a complete fucking wimp), but the endless dark of night had been weighing uncomfortably on Ronan. He hadn’t relished the idea of facing it alone.

He knew, soon enough, Adam would leave Ronan behind (not really, but Ronan couldn’t help how he felt), and Ronan would have to figure out how to make peace with his solitary existence in this world or avoid that reality further by seeking out a distraction like Kavinsky or alcohol or racing or any of the other pointless shit that he knew would provide only temporary relief.

But he didn’t need to face it just yet. Soon, yes. But not tonight, and for that he was grateful.

“Night, Ronan.”

“Night.”

Ronan crawled to his side of the bed and unearthed a battered iPod from his bedside table; Adam raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment on the archaic device. Ronan switched off the bedside light and within minutes, Adam’s breathing had evened out.

Ronan wouldn’t sleep tonight, not with Adam beside him. His dreams had been horrifying as shit the past few nights, and even though he’d gotten pretty good at controlling his dreams, he wasn’t going to risk it.

He cycled through his music selection and eventually chose a playlist of Irish folk songs. He hadn’t listened to anything except grating electronica since his dad’s death almost a year ago, but tonight he felt calmer and more settled than he’d felt in months and the sharp, vicious pain that usually accompanied any memory of Niall Lynch’s broad smile was absent, leaving in its place a dull, manageable ache.

He must have been more tired than he realized, though, because the next thing he knew he was reentering consciousness, frozen where he lay slumped against the headboard. He mentally shoved through the fog of sleep to remember his dream. He’d had a few run-of-the-mill nightmares, but his last dream had actually been pretty nice. He’d been roaming the lush green hills in Northern Ireland (a place he’d never actually been), so in theory he shouldn’t have brought back anything dangerous, unless he’d dreamt a stampeding herd of cattle or something.

He could hear the distinct wail of bagpipes; his headphones dug into his collarbone. After a few long minutes, he was able to open his eyes.

A light fog swirled gently around him, dampening the blanket. The space on the bed next to him was empty. Ronan sat up, alarmed.

Adam was seated cross-legged on the floor, framed by the early morning light that was filtering through the mist. Tarot cards were spread before him, but his face was turned upwards.

Ronan followed Adam’s gaze and realized the other teen wasn’t looking at anything; he was listening.

“Did you dream that?” Adam asked quietly.

The bagpipes continued to play an aching, melancholy tune that Ronan had never heard before. He realized his iPod had died; the music was not coming from his headphones. Instead, it seemed to be coming from the very mist around them.

They sat like that for a long time, listening, until Gansey knocked on the door and both the fog and the music faded like the dream they were.

*

As Adam got ready for school, Ronan didn’t bother changing. He wasn’t going to Aglionby—not ever again, if he could help it, but certainly not today. Gansey tried to argue: “Ronan, you’ve already missed the entire first week.”

Ronan threw himself back down on the bed. “Come on Gansey, you can’t make me go to school. I was kidnapped. I’m, you know, traumatized and shit.”

“You’re going to use this as an excuse for everything now, aren’t you.”

Ronan dropped Adam off at the public school in his dad’s BMW and then returned to the warehouse where he spent the morning sleeping and the afternoon doing donuts in the BMW with Noah, who had returned to Monmouth sometime while Ronan slept. After school let out, he went to visit Matthew, who once again got overly emotional at the mere sight of Ronan.

All in all, it was a pretty good first day back to reality, only marred slightly when Declan showed up to chew Ronan out for skipping school. Ronan simply walked out halfway through his older brother’s tirade _(“-keep this up, Ronan, and I’ll have the judge order you to move into the dorms-“_ ) and then spent the next few hours driving around the outskirts of Henrietta, listening to music until it was time to pick up Adam from work.

Adam emerged from the mechanic’s garage looking like the embodiment of some of Ronan’s more embarrassing fantasies with his face smudged with grease and a pair of blue coveralls folded over at the waist. As he entered the BMW, he smelled distractingly of gasoline.

Ronan tossed him something; Adam barely caught it. “What’s this?”

Ronan had unintentionally dreamt a few darkly ominous items (including a handgun) earlier in the day that he’d had to bury in the woods behind Monmouth, but the other thing he’d dreamt was what Adam now held.

Adam unscrewed the lid of the small, dark vial and sniffed it experimentally.

“It’s for your face,” Ronan explained. “For the sunburn.”

“Oh. Thanks. I’ll try it out.” Adam carefully screwed the lid back on and tucked it in a side pocket of his backpack. After they’d been driving for a few minutes, he said, “I called Aglionby from Boyd’s phone. To see if I could reapply for the spring semester.”

“No idea why you’d want to, but all right.”

“They said my tuition for the year was already paid for. I can start tomorrow.” Adam’s tone was level, his expression carefully composed. He was looking at Ronan.

“Who-? Oh, what, you think _I_ paid for Aglionby? Parrish, I wouldn’t wish that place on my worst enemy, you fucking kidding me?”

“Did Gansey?”

Ronan exhaled sharply through his nose. Going behind Adam’s back to pay his tuition _did_ seem like something Gansey would do. His motivations would have been good; he couldn’t know how much Adam would resent it.

But when they got back to Monmouth, Gansey was obviously confused.

“Should we ask the administration for more information?” Gansey suggested. “Surely they could tell you whose bank account the funds came from, at least.”

“They said it was an anonymous donor. They wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

Adam’s expression became contemplative, and later that evening, he asked to borrow Gansey’s phone and disappeared outside.

When he returned, his expression was as confused as Gansey’s had been. “Mr. Gray says it wasn’t him,” Adam said. “And if it wasn’t either of you…”

“It wasn’t,” Gansey assured him. “We wouldn’t have done that without asking you.”

Adam looked at Ronan. “The only other people I’ve ever met with this sort of money were Colin and Piper and all their friends. Mr. Gray is looking into it.”

“Fuck,” Ronan said. “But why would any of those assholes pay for your school?”

Adam shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea.”

“You’re not gonna go, then?” If Ronan was being honest with himself, he’d kind of liked the idea of seeing Adam every day at Aglionby; of course, that meant Ronan himself would actually have to go to school sometimes, but that seemed a small price to pay.

“I didn’t say that,” Adam said, rubbing at his forehead. “I mean, the tuition is paid for. It would be a waste not to go. I just don’t have a uniform, or books…”

“You can borrow mine for tomorrow,” Gansey offered immediately. As Gansey eagerly began to catch Adam up on what they’d been learning that semester, Ronan wandered off, wondering where the hell Noah was. Their elusive third roommate hadn’t even met Adam yet.

When it became apparent Adam was going to cram an entire week’s of scholastic material in one evening, Ronan started digging through the piles of clothes on his bedroom floor, trying to cobble together a school uniform for the next day. He wondered whether Adam would fit into Ronan’s suit jacket (Ronan never wore his and would be happy to donate it to the cause if it meant seeing Adam in his clothes) or if it would be too big. He tossed it onto his bed and continued his search.

There was a knock at his door. Ronan spun, Aglionby tie in hand, but before he could respond, Declan had pushed the door the rest of the way open.

“I got you a cell phone. You’re on my plan.”

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

“Gansey let me in.” Declan rushed to continue before Ronan could leave. “This was our agreement, Ronan. Take the cell phone. Answer my calls. Go to Aglionby with Gansey and Parrish. This is non-negotiable.”

As he said Adam’s name, Declan’s gaze flickered to the tie in Ronan’s hand.

Suddenly Ronan felt a surge of absolute certainty. “ _You_ paid his tuition.”

For a moment, he thought Declan would deny it. Then his older brother spread his hands in front of himself, a universal gesture of helplessness. “Well, how the hell else was I supposed to get you to go to school, Ronan?”

“You bastard."

“Oh, please,” Declan scoffed. “I did him a favor. He’s too smart for the local high school and you know it.”

This was true, but it also wasn’t the point. Ronan grated out, “He’s had enough people fucking around with his life.”

“Well, the deed is done and he benefits. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is he’s freaking the fuck out, he thinks it’s somehow connected to Greenmantle.”

Declan seemed taken aback. “Well, tell him it was me, then.” Ronan glared daggers and his brother sighed. 

Later, after Declan had been chased off the property, Ronan told Adam the truth. Adam absorbed the information silently before saying pragmatically, “Well. At least it’s not someone who actively wants to kidnap or kill me. But I’m not thrilled to have become a pawn in your war with Declan. I won't pay him back.”

"No shit.”

Then, to Ronan’s surprise, Adam’s expression morphed from annoyed to amused. “Is his plan going to work? Will I see you at school tomorrow?"

“Don’t give yourself so much credit.”

The annoying thing was that Declan’s plan _did_ work. Ronan had had every intention of dropping out of Aglionby completely, but now the prospect of seeing Adam in every class had given him no other option but to attend, especially after Adam moved into his new apartment at St. Agnes and Ronan saw less of him in the evenings.

Ronan didn’t much care for the sight of Adam in the crisp, uptight Aglionby uniform, but watching him put smarmy know-it-alls in their place, outsmarting every moron at Aglionby on a regular basis and proving generational wealth had nothing on raw intelligence, gave Ronan such immense satisfaction that he actually began to look forward to school each day.

Ronan would sometimes do his tie up incorrectly, too, just so Adam would shake his head pityingly and redo it for him in first period, his swift, nimble fingers tantalizingly close to Ronan’s throat.

The sly curve to Adam’s lips meant he knew exactly what Ronan was doing, but was playing along anyway.

*

“Haven’t seen ya around, Lynch.”

Ronan had managed to successfully avoid the owner of that grating voice his entire first week back at Aglionby, but his luck could only hold for so long. 

Kavinsky was leaning against the hood of his Mitsubishi in the Aglionby parking lot, obviously high despite it being only 7:30am. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the bleachers. “Proko’s got whippits.”

“Hard pass,” Ronan snarled. He kept walking.

“Aw babe, don’t be like that.” Kavinsky reached out as Ronan passed and tried to smack his ass; Ronan reacted violently, slamming Kavinsky against the hood of his car, hands fisted in the other teen’s jacket as his blood pounded furiously in his ears.

“Hey.” Adam came to a stop a few feet behind Ronan, expression coldly disdainful as he eyed Kavinsky. “He’s trying to get a rise out of you.”

Ronan shoved Kavinsky once more for good measure and stepped away. He shot Adam a sharp look: _stay out of this._

Kavinsky’s gaze was flickering from Ronan to Adam, then back to Ronan. A wolfish grin spread across his hungry features. “O- _kay_ , Lynch,” he crooned, pushing off from the hood of the Mitsu and adjusting his track jacket. “You and Dick have a lover’s quarrel? Is this the ‘other woman’?”

“Fuck off.” Ronan wondered whether it was worth the school suspension to give K the ass-kicking he was so obviously asking for.

Kavinsky’s grin only grew as he sauntered up to Adam and gave him an appraising once over, his eyes lingering on the frayed shoulder of Adam’s secondhand uniform. Adam’s expression was flat and entirely unsurprised; Ronan remembered that Adam had seen Kavinsky many times before, when he’d been scrying for Greenmantle. So he already knew what an asshole he was (not that he couldn’t have figured it out within five seconds of meeting the guy).

“Speaking from experience, Lynch is a hard man to pin down,” Kavinsky was saying, looking over his sunglasses conspiratorially. “Come on, girl talk, what’s your secret?” He reached out and gripped Adam’s shoulder in a gross parody of camaraderie; Adam stiffened at the unexpected contact.

“Don’t you fucking dare-“ Ronan started as Adam commanded, voice ringing with cold authority: “Get your hand off me, Joseph.”

There wasn’t anything inherently threatening about Adam. He wasn’t as tall as Ronan, and he was too thin to be physically imposing. But as Adam jerked his shoulder out from under Kavinsky’s hand and pinned him with a long, unblinking stare, Kavinsky’s smirk faltered.

“I don’t drug my own mother and I don’t manipulate the people around me as a way to deal with my own repression,” Adam said, his voice low and cool. “That’s my ‘secret’.” His gaze was eerily unrelenting, the blacks of his pupils widening to overtake his irises. Goose bumps rose on Ronan’s arms.

The ground shifted beneath Kavinsky.

For a moment, Ronan thought the other teen had rolled an ankle, but then he saw that Kavinsky’s foot had sunk right between a crack in the pavement that hadn’t been there a moment before. Mud bubbled and enveloped his bleach-white sneaker.

“Fuck!” 

Adam quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Ronan, his eyes once again their usual blue. The bell rang and he turned away, but Ronan didn’t move as Kavinsky yanked his foot free from the oozing muck with an unappealing _squelch_.

“You and me are done,” Ronan said.

“You’ll be back,” Kavinsky sneered, his expression ugly, but Ronan was already jogging to catch up to Adam.

“Yeah, run off with your _boyfriend_ ,” Kavinsky shouted. “You fucking fa-“

Ronan tuned Kavinsky’s insults out as he and Adam joined the throng of bleary-eyed students entering Aglionby.

“That was freaky as hell,” he told Adam approvingly.

“Yeah, well. I don’t like being touched.”

“You like it when I touch you.” Ronan immediately realized how sexual the words sounded and wished he could take them back.

“Yes,” Adam said, sounding irritated. “Because I like _you_.”

“Aw, you like me, Parrish?”

The look Adam leveled in Ronan’s direction was decidedly unamused. Ronan grinned.

All in all, Ronan was simultaneously elated and irritated after their run-in with Kavinsky. On the one hand, Kavinsky had erroneously assumed Adam and Ronan were boyfriends, which pleased Ronan greatly; on the other, ‘boyfriend’ was too casual a word for what Adam was to Ronan. “Soul mate” might be a closer descriptor. Or “life partner”.

Not that he and Adam were actually dating, Ronan had to remind himself.

But the truth of it was that their experiences had bound them together in a way that was inexplicable. No one else had been there for Ronan in the Greenmantle house, preventing Hal or the amphetamines from killing him. No one else could have kept Ronan sane in an insane situation. With Kavinsky, Ronan had dreamt fire and destruction; with Adam, he’d dreamt truth and freedom. Now that Ronan had found the real deal, cheap imitations were no longer tempting, and while a previous version of Ronan might have found the waiting intolerable, this new and surprisingly improved version of Ronan found that he didn't mind all that much, not when it meant having Adam as a friend.

Weeks passed. Adam got a second job, and whenever he wasn’t working he was doing homework, which meant Ronan also did his homework (or, more accurately, distracted Adam by teaching Chainsaw to pester him for food whenever he'd been studying too long).

On Saturday afternoons, Ronan, Gansey, Adam and Blue piled into the Camaro and explored the wild, uninhabited regions of the Shenandoah Valley, ostensibly on the hunt for Gansey’s dead Welsh king. They always stopped somewhere new for dinner, and Ronan relished the easy way Adam smiled now, the fact that the gauntness in his cheeks was diminishing from a month of regular meals and fresh air, that Adam felt comfortable enough to join Blue in making fun of Gansey. Although Ronan generally disliked dropping Adam off at St. Agnes afterwards, he could appreciate that Adam seemed much happier with his own place to live, and Ronan learned to be happy for Adam, too.

It occurred to Ronan that he could probably reintroduce the idea of a relationship to Adam—they were certainly together enough, despite Adam’s ridiculously busy schedule—but talking someone into dating you felt like a very _Declan_ way of doing things, and besides. Ronan knew what it was like to have someone pressure you into shit you weren’t ready for, and although Ronan knew (hoped) he wasn’t anything like Kavinsky, it wasn’t a line he wanted to go anywhere near, much less cross.

So Ronan focused on other shit, like hanging out with Matthew, and helping Gansey with his Henrietta model, and doing the bare minimum to scrape by at Aglionby.

Adam _finally_ met Noah one evening during a homework session with Gansey. The small teenager wandered in to play a round of pool with Ronan, losing spectacularly (as usual) and offering Adam a hopeful, tentative greeting. Adam stared unblinkingly at the short, crumpled teen, and when Noah eventually drifted off, out of earshot, Adam turned to Ronan and Gansey and said thoughtfully: “You never told me Monmouth was haunted.”

*

As promised, the Gray Man met Adam at a local bank about a week after he’d returned to Henrietta and co-signed for a small loan so Adam could pay the deposit and first month’s rent on his new apartment. Afterwards, at the Gray Man’s request, they visited St. Agnes together so he could assess the building’s security. The Gray Man deemed it adequate, though he did order a custom lock later that evening (one that the Gray Man knew from experience would be harder to pick) and he asked a colleague in law enforcement to run a full background check on the staff of both the church and Aglionby Academy.

He paid Robert Parrish a visit and got what he estimated to be half the amount of money Adam was owed; he added a few hundred dollars of his own money to the total and didn’t mention it when he met the teen at his St. Agnes apartment that evening.

As the Grey Man switched out the dated apartment doorknob with the new one, he was uncomfortably aware that the last time he’d replaced a lock, it had been to ensure Adam’s continued imprisonment in Greenmantle guest room. The teen’s attention, however, was entirely consumed by an English essay he was writing, which the Gray Man had agreed to give feedback on.

As he was getting ready to leave, the Gray Man asked, “When will you get a car? Surely you don’t intend to bike everywhere all year.”

Adam frowned, still looking at the Gray Man’s scrawled notes in the margins of his hand-written essay. “It hasn’t been a problem so far.”

The Gray Man was frowning now, too. “A car would be safer than the bike. Speaking of safety, you should think about taking self-defense classes. I could teach you the basics.”

Adam’s expression turned obstinate, but the Gray Man cut off any further protestations. “You need to start taking your safety seriously. What is your plan if someone recognizes you from your time with the Greenmantles?”

“Let you take care of it.”

“I admire your faith in me, but I’m hardly glued to your side 24/7.”

“I’ll be fine,” Adam said shortly.

“Will you at least get a cell phone?”

“ _No_ ,” Adam snapped, then visibly tried to reign himself in. “I don’t want to- these things cost money and- just, no.”

The Gray Man could see he’d pushed too hard; Adam looked ready to throw him out the door and put his new lock to good use.

He considered the teenager before him for a moment, then said, “Sometimes, we do things we don’t want in order to appease the people who care about us. Maura is making me see a therapist, for example.”

The dubious look that crossed Adam’s face was almost comical. “ _Why?_ ”

“She believes it will help me.”

“And… has it?”

“Remains to be seen.” Although the Gray Man said it with the same bland tone he said most things, it was a horribly vulnerable thing to share with Adam. He really did not like the sensation of laying himself bare, even in this small way.

Adam pressed his lips together and looked down, his finger tapping absently on his elbow. “I’ll think about your suggestions,” he said diplomatically.

“Thank you.”

Two days later, during a picnic lunch with Maura, the Gray Man’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

_It’s Adam. This is my new cell._

He responded with a ‘thumbs up’ (Blue had taught him how to use emojis) and saved the number to his phone.

“One never does stop worrying,” Maura mused, arranging potato chips on her sandwich.

“About?”

“No matter how old Blue gets, I still always think she’s going to forget to look both ways before crossing the street.”

The Gray Man mulled over what she was implying. “Adam Parrish is his own man.”

Softly, Maura said, “In some ways. He’s not quite there.”

The Gray Man suddenly felt entirely out of his depth. Then he admitted, “He keeps asking me to review his school essays. I’m not sure why. He’s an excellent writer, I don’t have many notes for him anymore.”

“Maybe he just enjoys spending time with you.”

This hadn’t occurred to the Gray Man.

Maura continued, her tone blasé as she bit into her sandwich with a loud _crunch_ , “Persephone says winter will arrive early, this year, and I was hoping to get the Fox Way fence repainted before it snows. It'll be a two-person job.”

The Gray Man knew a set of marching orders when he heard them, no matter how off-handed the delivery, so he called Adam that evening. “Have you ever painted a fence before?”

“No. Though the process seems straight-forward.”

“Well, if you’re free this Sunday, we’re making a group project of it at Maura’s. The gutters need to be cleaned, too.”

“What time should I be there?”

When they started painting that weekend, Adam was noticeably hard on himself every time he made a mistake. Soon enough, however, he must have realized that neither the Gray Man nor Maura nor any of the other inhabitants of Fox Way cared about a bit of spilled paint or a fence-post hole dug too shallowly, and by the end of the day he seemed far more relaxed and was, the Gray Man thought, even enjoying himself. Blue came out to help, somehow ending up with more yellow paint on her clothes than Adam and the Gray Man combined (though the Gray Man thought that might have been intentional).

Maura insisted they both stay for dinner and afterwards, the Gray Man asked if Adam was free the following weekend to continue painting (and to do repairs, as some of the wood had rotted through) and Adam readily agreed.

In the month that followed, the Gray Man and Maura went on one date, then another, then another. Maura was enthusiastic about their budding relationship; the Gray Man was hesitant. Not because of how he felt for her, but because he still wasn’t entirely sure where he stood with Blue, whose blessing he thought he ought to have if he was going to seriously date her mother.

“Adam’s told me everything about you,” Blue informed him after he arrived at Fox Way one Friday to pick Maura up. She eyed him critically over her cup of yogurt.

“Good things, I hope,” the Gray Man said, suddenly a little concerned. 

“Too good. And Adam’s the most mistrustful person I know. I’m suspicious.”

“Hold on, now,” the Gray Man said. “You’re saying if he’d spoken negatively of me you’d believe him?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m still reserving judgment.”

“That’s sensible of you,” the Gray Man said. Blue made a face that showed she found this assessment disagreeable. “I meant, it’s actually very daring and dangerous of you,” he quickly amended, and Blue snorted. The Gray Man continued, “Why don’t you join your mother and I to the movies this evening and you can make up your mind about me for yourself?”

Blue considered this. “I get to choose the movie.”

“Of course.”

“And no kissing or hand holding or any of that. I’m trying to preserve my innocence for as long as possible, and I don’t like the reminder that my mother is human.”

“You have my word.”

That evening, the Gray Man laughed for the first time in years (though he later couldn’t remember the joke that had been told, only that Blue had been the one to tell it), and Maura reached for his hand on the drive home, prompting the Gray Man to inform her of his promise not to mentally scar Blue (Blue heartily approved from the back seat), and later that evening, in the still, quiet hours of the night, Maura nestled her head against the Gray Man’s bare chest and asked him to move into Fox Way with them, and the Gray Man said yes.

*

Over the course of autumn, Fox Way got its gutters cleared, its wooden fence painted and its front yard regularly raked of leaves. The Gray Man and Adam did most of the work together, though Blue occasionally joined them and Maura always made sure her workers were well fed and watered (though they all tactfully avoided any offerings of her pungent home-brewed teas).

While they worked, the Gray Man would ask Adam about school, or his two jobs, or the culinary difficulties he faced living in an apartment that didn’t have a kitchen. Adam, in turn, would ask the Gray Man about his experience working in higher education, or how to apply for health insurance, or his opinions on various four-year universities. The rich boy Gansey and someone named Noah became regular fixtures in Adam’s stories about school. He often mentioned Ronan Lynch as well, and so the Gray Man surmised the two had remained friends, or were perhaps more than friends (the Gray Man drew a firm line at involving himself in the romantic lives of teenagers and so never asked). While the Gray Man privately thought Ronan Lynch had a rotten attitude and a tiresome inability to think before he acted, it was clear that Adam was the sort of person who cared about having friends and so the Gray Man was glad he’d found some.

Sometimes, the Gray Man and Adam ran out of things to talk about and so would work in silence, taking turns holding the rickety ladder so the other could reach the gutters; Adam appeared to trust implicitly that the Gray Man would not let him fall, which seemed to be a sort of communication in and of itself.

In the early evenings, Persephone would sit on the couch across from Adam in the reading room and they would scry or read tarot together. Then Adam and Blue would spread out and do homework (occasionally assisted by the Gray Man) until it was time for dinner, after which Maura would hand Adam a container of leftovers and invite him to return the following Sunday.

The Gray Man found that he was happy, and while it wasn’t an emotion he had much experience with, he found that it suited him—for the most part. The number of people he cared about was steadily growing, and so there was a frightening edge to that happiness because, for the first time in his life, he had more to lose than merely his own life.

Adam continued to bike everywhere and never learned any self-defense, but the Gray Man felt better knowing Adam at least had his own phone to contact people for help should he ever need it. Furthermore, his weekly psychic training sessions with Persephone seemed to offer some measure of defense (Adam’s ley line had, after all, protected him from Piper’s helicopter crash), and the Gray Man was diligent in ensuring none of his former colleagues ever had reason to visit Henrietta.

The Gray Man was hired for a short-term research job that he could do remotely (compiling medieval literary sources for a university’s archives) and while the earnings were paltry compared to what he’d been making with the Greenmantles, he was never tempted to return to his previous line of work.

That chapter of his life, the Gray Man decided, was over.

*

Despite his promises, Declan still wanted Ronan to move into the Aglionby dorms and brought it up every chance he got. Ronan’s nightmares had persisted, though, and nightmares for Ronan were never a situation to be taken lightly. On one particularly horrific occasion about a month after his return to Henrietta, he brought back a human arm (no body, just an arm) and Declan had _finally_ been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that, no, Ronan most certainly could _not_ live at the Aglionby dorms.

So instead, Declan moved into Monmouth.

It was not a situation Gansey was particularly thrilled about, and Noah probably wasn’t happy either, judging by the fact that he fucked off to wherever spirits went when they didn’t want to socialize (Ronan didn’t think he’d ever forgive Noah for being a ghost and _not fucking telling them_ but that was another issue altogether). Ronan, for his part, was downright furious with his brother. All of Ronan's swearing made no difference. For about a week, Declan remained in their living room each night, couch pulled up right outside Ronan’s door, shotgun resting on the ground below him.

The nightmares eventually ceased (or, at least, became tame enough that Ronan managed not to bring back any of them), and Declan finally agreed to return to the dorms after Gansey promised to call him if Ronan ever dreamt something they couldn’t handle.

As Declan left Monmouth that evening, Ronan followed him outside and waited as his brother hefted his overnight bag into the backseat of his SUV.

“May I help you?” Declan asked pointedly.

As downright annoying as Declan had been the past few weeks, he’d somehow resisted every one of Ronan’s attempts to pick an outright fight. There was something frighteningly resolute about the intensity with which Declan had been acting, and the visual of Declan coldly pointing his shotgun at Piper Greenmantle had featured in more than one nightmare. The entire experience belied a darker side to his brother that Ronan had never seen before, and he didn’t like it at _all_.

Ronan chewed at his leather bracelets. “What did you see, back at the factory? In the dream rain?”

Declan paused, his hand resting on the driver’s side door handle. He did not look at Ronan. “What was I supposed to see?”

“I dunno. I saw, like, memories and shit.”

“I saw… possibilities. The rain told me I needed to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Who I want to be.”

“I could tell you who you are,” Ronan started, the words ‘man whore’ and ‘liar’ and ‘control freak’ on the tip of his tongue, but then Declan looked over his shoulder and suddenly Ronan was struck by _young_ his older brother looked.

Gone was the tightly controlled air of regality and firm business handshakes and the guy who said shit like _why yes Senator I quite agree with your position on how bovine emissions contribute to climate change._

Declan was afraid.

This was not allowed. Declan could be arrogant and condescending and mind-numbingly boring but he was _not_ allowed to show any chinks in his armor, and Ronan felt like he had just shifted the gears of his BMW, but badly, and there was no telling if the car was about to stall out or crash or both.

Declan yanked open the SUV door and sat down inside. Ronan stepped forward quickly, catching the door before Declan could close it.

“Hey,” he said sharply and Declan looked up. His brother’s expression was utterly blank again, almost bored, but for once Ronan wasn’t fooled.

“You don’t belong in Dad’s world. Stop acting like it.”

Declan’s face twisted and he looked away, jaw working.

“I spent a week with those assholes, and you’re-“ Ronan broke off, trying to figure out how to convey what he needed to say. “You aren’t like them. You, like, have a soul.”

Declan continued to stare straight ahead, his knuckles whitening where he gripped the steering wheel. “I don’t… care about people way you do, Ronan. It’s not that I don’t want to. I simply can’t. Dad could see that. I’m surprised you don’t.”

Ronan frowned. Of all his brother’s faults, he’d never for a second doubted that Declan cared. If anything, Declan cared about too much: Ronan’s grades, Matthew’s happiness, his own ambitions. Was that really how Declan saw himself?

Declan continued, his voice tightly controlled, “That’s why Dad was training me. Bringing me to business meetings, introducing me around. He knew I’d take over the business one day.”

“Business?”

“Selling his dream things.”

“ _Fuck no_ ,” Ronan said vehemently. “You want to end up dead? Because that’s how you wind up fucking dead.” Declan didn’t respond, just kept looking out the front windshield. Ronan forged onward, feeling uncomfortable as hell, but this was the longest, most civil conversation he and Declan had had since their dad’s death. “And you’ve gotta stop- like- blaming yourself, or whatever. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You’re not ‘fine’ if you’re dreaming up dismembered body parts,” Declan said through clenched teeth.

“I thought you just said you ‘couldn’t care’ about people. Jesus, you’re such a liar. This was all my own fault, anyway. If I’d listened to you none of this would’ve happened in the first place.”

Declan seemed to be fighting some inner battle. When he spoke, his voice was tightly controlled. “Stay in school.”

“What?”

“I talked to Gray. It’s the safest place for you to be every day. He’s done a full background check on the faculty and-“

Anger flared, hot and heavy and volatile. “You’re gonna take the advice of the guy who _killed dad-“_

“On someone else’s orders-”

“He still did it.” How could Declan even _look_ at the hitman, much less speak to him? Ronan felt with a hot, absolute certainty that, of all Declan’s wrongdoings, this might be the most unforgiveable of them all.

Still, he didn’t slam the car door. He didn’t walk away. He stayed where he was, breathing through his rage, trying to remember what the whole point of this conversation was supposed to be.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Declan admitted, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Its been me verses Dad’s world for so long…” he shook his head. 

Ronan grappled with his anger for another moment before spitting out, “Fine. I’ll- keep going to school.”

“Thank you.”

“And- look, I’m not gonna do anything stupid. I won’t put Matty at risk again. I know I fucked up but it’s not gonna happen again so you’ve gotta get off my back.”

It was the truth, after all. Ronan was done with the racing, going to the Barns, Kavinsky, all of it. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks. It would be nice if Declan saw and appreciated those efforts.

Declan’s expression was pinched, but he nodded. “All right.”

Ronan stepped back and let Declan close the door, and although Ronan was still annoyed with his brother, he also couldn’t help but feel like they’d reached some sort of monumental understanding.

*

Ronan's phone vibrated, once, signaling an incoming text.

 _Are you awake?_

He sat up, pulling his headphones down and checking the time. It was only 1am; of course he was awake. He called Adam immediately. “What’s wrong?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line and Ronan was already on his feet, grabbing the keys to the BMW, Gansey’s name on his lips when Adam said, voice too quiet, “I dreamt I shot you. Sorry, I- go back to bed.”

Ronan stopped, his heart twisting uncomfortably. He hated moments like this, these cruel, casual reminders that Adam had not escaped the Greenmantle house entirely unscathed. Neither of them had.

Good thing he knew a thing or two about dealing with nightmares. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed. “Dream me probably deserved it. What’d he do? I’ll kick his ass.”

Adam’s voice remained serious. “I was trying to help you. Like when I shot Mr. Gray-”

“ _You_ shot Gray?”

“I was aiming for his brother. God, I could’ve killed him.”

“You didn’t.”

“Thanks to you.”

This threw Ronan for a loop. “What?”

“Gray had your dream necklace in his pocket. It stopped the bullet. You didn’t know?”

Ronan scoffed. “You _fucking_ kidding me?”

“I should’ve known you’d be pissed.”

“Look,” Ronan said, because yeah, as pissed as he was about being the one to _save the life of the man who killed his dad_ , getting rid of Adam’s stupid guilt mattered more. “I’m fine, Gray’s fine, we’re all fine. So let it go.”

Adam was silent for a long moment. “I’m trying to,” he said finally.

“Good. You finish the book for world lit? I’m worried about our test tomorrow.”

“Ronan, you don’t give a shit about world lit _._ ” Ronan grinned; he loved when Adam swore.

“I’m trying to beat out the asshole who’s top of the class, I wanna wipe that smug look off his face.” Their lit teacher had recently spent half the class singing Adam’s praises for getting a perfect score on his latest essay; Adam had been mortified at the attention.

“Oh, fine,” Adam said wearily, and there was the sound of a backpack being unzipped. “How far have you read? What chapter are you on?”

“You’re gonna need to start from the beginning.”

“ _Ronan._ It’s three hundred pages!”

“Guess you’d better get started.”

Ronan lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes as Adam started to read, pausing every couple sentences to explain something that would probably be on the test. Ronan let the Henrietta-soaked words wash over him, not overly concerned with what, exactly, was being said. It didn’t take long for Adam’s words to become slower, less easily understood, and then he stopped reading altogether, and Ronan knew the other teen had fallen back asleep.

*

Tomorrow would be November 12th. The date had loomed large in Ronan's mind for days.

He stood outside the closed St. Agnes apartment door, trying to calm himself down before he entered. He didn’t need to knock; Adam had given him a key, and had also probably heard him stomping up the stairs. And, obviously, was a psychic. He'd probably known Ronan was going to show up unannounced before Ronan himself did.

Ronan fumbled a bit, finally getting the key in the lock and almost collapsing across the threshold.

Adam was seated cross-legged on his thin mattress, hunched over a textbook. He was wearing a plain t-shirt and gym shorts; he must’ve showered after his Boyd’s shift, which was a shame. Ronan liked when Adam smelled like gasoline.

Adam glanced up, offered Ronan a quick nod, and turned back to the textbook, his brow furrowed with studious intent. Ronan vaguely remembered they had a history test tomorrow. Or maybe it was world lit. He didn’t bother removing his boots, just crashed onto the bed behind Adam, wrapping his arms around the other teen’s torso and pressing his forehead to one bony shoulder.

Adam made a soft noise of irritation. “Is there a reason you’re clinging to me like a koala?” But he also pressed his fingers, briefly, to Ronan’s forearm where it was clamped around his chest, so Ronan knew he wasn’t actually annoyed. Or, at least, that Adam’s fondness had won out over it.

Ronan didn’t answer, just pulled Adam tighter, willing the writhing knot of destruction inside him to untangle itself into something manageable. Adam smelled like cheap soap; when Ronan crashed at the St. Agnes apartment, he always used the body wash-and-shampoo combo in the shower and would go back to Monmouth smelling like Adam. Nothing compared to this, though: Adam’s warm body in his arms, breathing and living and solid and tangible.

It wasn't often that Ronan showed up unannounced like this. He wasn't trying to be fresh, he knew he and Adam weren't boyfriends and he didn't want Adam to think he'd forgotten. But there were times Ronan didn't have a choice: it was either find Adam or find an open liquor mart that wouldn't ask for ID, and Ronan couldn't betray the trust of everyone he cared about by going with the second option. 

Adam must have sensed Ronan’s distress, but he didn’t press Ronan to talk. He’d apparently learned in mere weeks what Declan hadn’t managed to learn in 17 years, which was this: If you wanted Ronan to say what he was thinking, you needed to wait quietly, patiently, and not ask too many questions--and even then, you may not get anything from him.

Adam turned a page, then another, then another. 

Finally, Ronan said, his voice low and hoarse, “Tomorrow will be a year. Since… since Dad.” 

Adam brought his hand to Ronan’s where it was pressed against his chest and held on tightly as the back of his shirt steadily dampened. He didn’t say anything, but Ronan didn’t need him to. Adam’s mere presence was enough.

*

As midterms approached, Ronan found himself spending more and more time at the Aglionby library with Adam, begrudgingly catching up on all the missed work he hadn’t bothered with before then. Being trapped inside, surrounded by dusty books and unable to say anything above a whisper left Ronan in a perpetual state of irritability. On one particularly grueling afternoon the week before midterms were set to start, Adam glanced up at his disgruntled expression (Ronan had just announced “No one needs to know the fucking Pythagorean theorem in real life!” to the entire library), then at the scandalized librarian bee-lining towards them, and had suggested they continue their study session at Monmouth. 

Gansey was leading a group study session of his own at school and Noah had fucked off to who-knew-where, so Adam and Ronan had the place to themselves. While Adam carefully organized his notes, Ronan paged angrily through his geometry book.

He really had no reason to be so pissed off. He and Adam had visited the dorms earlier to see Matthew and Sunshine (who had entered her moody cat-teen years and now attacked anyone who tried to pet her; Matthew had scratches up and down his forearms but for some reason still loved the mangy animal with a stupidly fierce devotion) and usually Ronan emerged in better spirits after seeing his younger brother.

No, it was more that every study session brought with it the irritating reminder that he was still an Aglionby student, despite his iron-clad plan to drop out at the beginning of the year. Even his promises to Declan seemed untenable in light of the torturous week of that loomed.

Adam was staring at the side of Ronan’s head, probably wondering why the hell Ronan was so pissed off, but Ronan steadily ignored the other teen in favor of drawing horns on all the obscenely happy people on the pages before him. He’d failed geometry the year before and was being forced to retake the class; it hadn’t made any fucking sense the first time around and it sure as hell wasn’t making sense now, so why bother study? Was geometry going to help him raise cattle? Or grow corn? Not fucking likely.

“Ronan, you know, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and… I think I’m ready.”

Adam’s voice had taken on a strange, almost contemplative quality, but Ronan didn’t really analyze it as he sighed loudly and slammed the textbook shut. “No shit you’re ready for midterms, Parrish, you were born ready for-“

Adam’s kiss caught him utterly off-guard. For a clumsy moment, Ronan didn’t know what was happening but then he was rolling with it, relishing the feel of stubble-on-skin as Adam’s mouth worked against his, every synapse suddenly alive as Adam’s cool hands framed his face and tugged him closer—

Adam pulled away, his grin wide and more than a little mischievous, blue eyes dancing with amusement at Ronan’s expression (which was probably embarrassingly dumb-founded).

“Get back here,” Ronan blurted, and Adam laughed and obliged, not even noticing as he knocked over his stack of notes in the process.

It didn’t take long for Ronan’s mood to improve.

*

“You’re dead to me, Lynch!”

Ronan cackled and ducked behind the snowman they'd spent all morning building. It was hard to take Adam’s threats seriously when he was jumping around like that, trying to shake loose the handful of snow Ronan had just shoved down the back of his jacket.

Beside Adam, Blue was hunched over and fervently packing a snowball, her expression promising immediate retribution. “This means war!” she called out.

“Come now,” Gansey said, ever the peacemaker. “Surely we can agree such fighting is pointless?”

He got a snowball to the back of his head for his efforts; Ronan laughed wildly and gave his brother a hi-five as Matthew grinned back unabashedly, already forming his next icy missive. Before long, snowballs were flying through the air in every direction. Even Maura joined in, looking like a giant marshmallow in her puffy white jacket as she made a pile of snowballs for her daughter to deploy from behind a tree.

Ronan hadn’t been looking forward to spending Thanksgiving day at Fox Way. He couldn’t stand being in Gray’s proximity, and Maura Sargent had invited Declan which meant there was a good chance the holiday was going to be a repeat of last year's, during which Ronan had given Declan a black eye and Matthew had spent the whole lunch pretending like he wasn’t crying into his restaurant napkin.

But Gansey and Adam had decided to go, and Matthew had wanted to spend some quality time with Orla’s cats, and on top of it all Ronan was starting to really tolerate Blue, so in the end he’d agreed to make an appearance.

It had, surprisingly, been the right choice. Watching Declan tactfully evade Orla’s blatant advances all day as she towered loftily over him in her heeled boots was hilarious, and Ronan wasn’t even put off by Gray’s presence after the man convinced Adam to accept his spare gloves and coat so Adam wouldn’t freeze to death building their snowman.

It was kind of annoying, actually. Ronan and Gansey could never seem to get Adam and his stupid pride to accept anything resembling a gift from either of them, but those rules didn’t seem to apply to Gray (which was kind of a relief because if they did, Adam would probably still be living with his shitty parents).

Furthermore, Henrietta had gotten a surprise snowfall overnight, so the world was white and pristine and beautiful despite the dreary skies and icy roads. Ronan had driven from St. Agnes to Fox Way with the windows down so he could suck in deep lungfuls of crisp, cold air, only turning on the heat after Adam had loudly complained.

“Matty, go distract Declan for me.”

“Aw, man…”

“Come on, it’ll be funny.”

Matthew was able to keep Declan talking long enough for Ronan to sneak around the side of the house to land a solid hit to Declan’s shoulder from point-blank range. Declan slipped in his hasty retreat inside, and Ronan was about to follow, another snowball in hand, when he was suddenly tackled to the ground.

Adam was breathless, his cheeks flushed with victory as he clambered on top of Ronan and lightly pinned one of his arms above his head. “Do you yield?”

“Yeah, you got me,” Ronan said agreeably as Adam hovered, savoring their private moment amidst the chaos of the snow fight raging around them.

“You gave up too easily,” Adam said, his breath a warm puff of air against Ronan’s cheek.

“Stop being gross!” Blue called out, as though she hadn’t spent the entirety of lunch sprawled casually across Gansey’s lap.

Adam grinned ruefully and shifted, pulling Ronan to his feet in one fluid motion. Together, they moved to the sagging Fox Way back porch where Persephone handed them each a warm cup of hot chocolate and they watched Maura and Blue’s relentless attack on Gansey. Matty joined Gansey to even the odds a bit and Ronan sank into a wicker loveseat next to Adam, shivering as cold water slid down the nape of his neck.

Ronan’s nightmares had become fewer and more easily managed in recent weeks, but he was starting to accept that they were as much a part of him as his ability to manifest dreams in the first place. He would never fully eradicate the darkness in the world—inside himself—but for too long he’d allowed the darkness to consume him, and in doing so had forgotten the simple truth that only light could chase away shadows.

The trick was this: he needed to focus on the light. Now that he wasn’t drinking himself into a stupor on a regular basis or seeking out every opportunity to fight anyone with a pulse, the sources of light in his life were a lot easier to spot.

Beside him, Adam sipped at his hot chocolate, expression relaxed. There was whipped cream on his chin. Ronan wanted to lick it off, so he did.

“You’re- that’s disgusting,” Adam said, wiping at his jaw and trying not to laugh. Ronan grinned wickedly.

Once, during their imprisonment—and it seemed like a hundred years ago now—Adam had flipped the Death tarot card. A card that, Adam claimed, actually signified new beginnings. 

Adam still insisted he hadn’t been able to see the future until his vision that morning in the motel, but now, thinking back on that card, Ronan wasn’t so sure.

Because this: sliding his gloved hand easily into Adam’s, pressing his lips briefly to Adam’s shoulder, breathing in Adam’s scent of gasoline and soap and sweat as they watched their friends and family laugh and shout before them—

This felt a lot like the new beginning that Adam had foretold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... don't even know what to say. The positive response to this fic has continually stunned me and was the absolute BEST part of my year. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> It took a while for this last chapter to get posted largely because I couldn't believe this journey was going to end. But, just like Ronan, Adam and Mr. Gray, it's time for me to start a new chapter (maybe literally).
> 
> You can reblog this fic [on my tumblr, philosophersandfools](https://philosophersandfools.tumblr.com/post/617400762670137344/chapter-7-of-my-trc-fanfic-the-collected-is-now#notes)
> 
> Much love, dear readers <3


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